


Happily Ever After

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Almost Kiss, Almost Lost You, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Dean/Cas Pinefest (Supernatural), Disney, Disney Movies, Disney References, Disney-Style Romance, Dressed up for the Ball, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, Idiots in Love, Illustrated, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Love Confessions, M/M, Meddling Charlie Bradbury, Meddling Sam Winchester, Mugging, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, POV Alternating, Police Officer Castiel (Supernatural), Police Officer Dean Winchester, Roommates, Scheming, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Police Officer Dean Winchester’s younger brother Sam and his best friend Charlie Bradbury have had enough of watching him pine over his best friend, roommate, and partner on the force, Castiel. Especially when it’s so obvious to everyone but the two of them that the feeling is mutual. Subtle hints and encouragement just aren’t cutting it anymore. Now, it’s time to get drastic. It’s time… for Disney.
Relationships: (Minor), Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 401
Kudos: 910
Collections: Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. I Won't Say I'm in Love

**Author's Note:**

> Don't take this fic too seriously, it's just supposed to be a good time! 
> 
> Thank you to @coinofstone, pingnova, and ltleflrt for the editing, the feedback, and the encouragement, and thank you to [Anyrei](https://anyreiart.tumblr.com/) for making the most amazing art. Seriously, Any's banner is probably my favorite piece of bang art I've ever received, it's so beautiful and perfect. Look at the little Pinefest logo reppin' the Disney castle!! How cool is that?! I have long been an Any/anyrock fangirl, and getting the chance to work with her as an artist was a frickin' dream come true. Thank you, Any! You are truly the best. Please head to Any's [Art Masterpost](https://anyreiart.tumblr.com/post/614631031628349440/my-art-for-castielslostwings-lovely-pinefest) on tumblr and give her all the love. <3
> 
> Thank you also to Mittens and Cass for running a smooth and enjoyable challenge, you guys did an awesome job and were fantastic mods.

“They’re _never_ gonna do it.”

Sam Winchester, District Attorney extraordinaire, sighs and closes the criminal law reference book he has open in front of him. It’s been over half an hour and Sam’s finally giving up on keeping the one-sided conversation his best friend Charlie is insistent on having with him as just that. He has a murder case going to trial tomorrow, but somehow the importance of that has sailed cleanly over Charlie’s head. Instead of patiently waiting for Sam to finish up his review of _Arizona v. Fulminante_ and the case precedent for conviction without a body, she’s chattering on obliviously about Sam’s own brother and his not-so-subtle love for his best friend, Castiel Novak. 

This is probably all Sam’s own fault for hiring Charlie to update the County’s website for his office, but in his defense, he thought she’d do it from home. Isn’t that the whole point of being a consultant? _Not_ having to put on pants and go into a physical office where you have to drink bad coffee and pretend to like annoying co-workers? 

“Charlie,” Sam says patiently, cutting her off as she opens her mouth to launch into another spiel of complaints regarding Dean’s inability to use actual words regarding his emotions. “It’s not that I don’t love having you here, or disagree with you at all about Dean, but you do know this is actually my job? If I don’t, you know, _do it_ , the scumbag Dean and Cas worked for months to track down and arrest could walk free. And then the last thing you’re going to be worried about is Dean’s love life, because he’s going to kill you.” Looking at Charlie pointedly, Sam nods when she snaps her mouth shut and mimes zipping it closed. He’s even got the reference text halfway open again when she changes her mind and speaks.

“It’s just—” Sam growls a little and closes his eyes, but Charlie either doesn’t notice or pretends that’s the case. “ _Ten_ years. It’s been _ten_ years of this.”

“Eleven,” Sam corrects automatically, because it’s been eleven damn years for _him_ too. Eleven years of the worst UST to ever UST _right in front of his salad._ He _knows._

Charlie acknowledges him with a nod and a hand gesture. “And we keep letting them off the hook, yanno?” She shakes her head and flops down in one of the chairs opposite Sam’s desk, flinging one leg over an arm. Rummaging in her shoulder bag, she pulls out a pack of Twizzlers and pops the end of one in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as she offers the bag to Sam. He holds a hand up to decline before dropping his chin into it, resigned. 

“I hear you, Charles,” he says. “I mean, _trust_ me, I hear you. You’re not the one who has to live with them. Might as well kiss my sanity goodbye, especially if I have to walk in on the two of them on the couch having “movie night” with their feet in each other’s laps one more goddamn time.” 

Charlie’s eyes widen incredulously. “I didn’t even know about that one,” she says.

“Yea. I’ve been trying not to think about it.” Sam snorts. He pauses for a moment and then reaches out to swipe the Twizzlers. If Charlie’s going to make him have this conversation, he deserves a treat. “Imagine what they do when I’m _not_ there.”

Shaking the candy bag in frustration as she takes it back, Charlie makes a disgruntled noise. “That’s the _problem,_ Sam! They’re not _doing_ anything. Besides no-homo-ing foot rubs, I guess. Ugh! Men.” She blinks and looks at Sam apologetically. “Present company excluded.” 

Sam just shakes his head. “Believe me, I get it. You know, when they were paired together as roommates freshman year of college, I assumed they’d be together by the end of the semester.”

“You and everyone else,” Charlie agrees.

“But neither of them made a move, and I figured… I dunno.” Sam shrugs. “As time went on, I just assumed they were waiting for something. You know? One arbitrary deadline or another. Graduation, maybe. Then they both got hired to the City Police force and I thought well, they might not want to be together or out during their academy training. For a long time I actually thought maybe they _were_ together, but they were hiding it. You know how emergency services can be. There are some incredibly homophobic assholes out there, especially in the police department.”

Nodding vigorously, Charlie bites off a piece of Twizzler angrily. “Don’t gotta tell this girl-loving-girl about that. I did some work for the department last year and the number of times I heard “gay” used as an insult almost had me walking out. If the County didn’t pay so well…” 

Sam shakes his head. “That’s fucked up.”

“Don’t worry,” Charlie says, a very particular gleam in her eye that Sam’s only seen when she’s up to no good. “Did I mention the work I was doing was for the payroll department? Keepers of bank account numbers and so on? I made sure that all of those ‘phobes sent significant donations to pro-LGBT rights groups of my choosing.”

Slamming hands over his ears, Sam can’t decide whether to glare or gape at his friend. Charlie’s brilliant, and she’s always been good to him and his brother, but she’s got an ethical code more complex than the Stuxnet worm, and Sam personally would not want to end up on her bad side. “I can’t hear this, Charles,” he reminds her. “That’s a conflict of interest on _so_ many levels I don’t know where to start.”

“Back to Dean,” Charlie says with an eye roll, clearly unfazed as she motions for him to return to the story.

“Right, so by that point we were all living together, since none of us were making much money, and I swear, Charlie, it took me _months_ to figure out whether they were putting on a front for _me._ Honestly, if it weren’t for the separate rooms, I wouldn’t have even thought twice. You know, lots of couples don’t kiss in public or whatever, and Dean’s always been weird like that about PDA.”

“Before college, I’m assuming. It’s not like he’s had a real relationship we can compare to since he met Castiel,” Charlie points out.

“ _Neither_ of them has,” Sam adds, exasperated. “Dean said something to me once about Cas being demisexual and I think he’s convinced himself that’s why he isn’t interested in dating. Versus the obvious, which is that he’s as in love with Dean as Dean is with him.”

Tugging on the Twizzler clamped between her teeth, Charlie narrows her eyes in thought. “I mean, is it possible that’s the case? Eleven years is a long time, dude. And Dean’s had one night stands off and on. Maybe he’s just aromantic.” Sam doesn’t even dignify that with a response, just glares Charlie down over the top of his reading glasses. After all, _she_ started this. “Okay, okay,” she relents. “Just saying. But seriously, they spend almost all day, every day together, and they have for over a decade! They live together, they work together, they share a squad car when they’re off… detecting, or whatever. Back when they were beat cops, they patrolled together, too.”

“Charlie, they go on _dates.”_

“ _OH MY GOD, RIGHT?!”_ Charlie near-shrieks and Sam has to motion for her to keep it down. They are in the courthouse, after all, and there are courtrooms in session down the hall _and_ below them. 

“I mean, I know _they_ don’t call them that. But what else are we supposed to think about the alone-time dinners together several nights a week? And the standing beers on Friday nights, after work at the same bar, the one down the street from the precinct. Sometimes I join them. Or Benny and the other guys they hang with from work might too, but they _always_ go together, regardless of what anyone else does. They drive to and from work in the same car and Dean takes Cas clothes shopping! They’re a couple in every damn way that everyone else would define one, and more importantly, all of us eye-having people can see without trying how much they love each other.”

Charlie sighs wistfully. “What I wouldn’t give for someone to look at me the way either of those two idiots looks at the other when they think no one is watching.”

“What _I_ wouldn’t give for them to stop looking at each other like that while _I’m_ looking,” Sam retorts. 

Abruptly, Charlie sits up straight and plants her feet on the floor in front of her. “Well, that settles it,” she says decisively. Sam raises an eyebrow. “We have to do something.” 

“Oh, no,” he replies, putting his hands up and shaking his head _no_ for emphasis _._ “No way. You couldn’t pay me enough to get in the middle of that emotionally constipated mess. Besides, nothing’s changed. We’ve talked about this a hundred times before, Charlie. This is just how they _are,_ you know that. Nothing we do is going to change them.”

“We have to _try_ ,” Charlie persists. “We have an obligation. To them and—and, to the world!” Sam makes a face and Charlie relents, though Sam doesn’t miss the way that gleam appears in her eye again. “Okay, maybe I just want to play matchmaker. Is that so wrong? Listen, Sam, this is for you too. You want your brother to be happy, don’t you? Maybe even be happy somewhere else, instead of your couch? You get them to admit their feelings, start their life together, they’re _going_ to move out and be gross in their _own home_. Eventually. You’ll get your house back.” Charlie wiggles her eyebrows. “Date nights with Eileen would be a lot more of the fun and free variety.”

She has a point there, but still, Sam can’t help but feel skeptical. This seems like it’s a lot more for _Charlie_ and her own entertainment than anything else. “I don’t know, Charles. Eleven years is a long time. Maybe they just… can’t do it.”

Charlie sits forward excitedly and places her hands flat on the top of Sam’s desk. “That’s why they need our help. They’re in a rut, a series of routines that neither of them feels like they can break. No one’s willing to be the one to possibly destroy the friendship they’ve built, so instead of taking the risk and finding out their feelings are mutual, they stay in the comfort zone. _We_ have to break them out of it.” 

Leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his stomach, Sam works his jaw as he thinks. It _would_ be nice for both him and Dean to get on with their own lives. What siblings still live with each other at thirty years old?! While Dean basically brought him up—was more of a father to him than their own father, really—even Sam has to admit, their codependent tendencies are less than healthy. And Sam _loves_ his brother more than anything, but he’s also ready to be his own person, fully realized. And if that means being able to bang Eileen on the kitchen counter without running the risk of Dean or Cas wandering in for a bowl of Cookie Crisp, hell, that’s just a bonus. “Alright,” he says finally. “What exactly did you have in mind?” 

The grin that spreads across Charlie’s face is positively feral, and Sam is scared. “I say we break out the tropiest, cheesiest, most cliché romantic traps in the book. The kind that even Dean and Cas won’t be able to either ignore or resist.” 

“And… what would those be?”

With a wink, Charlie leans forward conspiratorially. “ _Disney.”_

***


	2. Kiss the Girl

By the time Charlie’s fully laid out her plan, Sam’s managed to relocate them from his office to the bar down the street. And thank God for that, because he definitely needed a beer or three to get him through this conversation. “I can’t believe I’m signing on for this,” he says with a sigh, and Charlie pats his shoulder reassuringly. 

“Eyes on the prize, Samuel,” she replies seriously. “It’ll all be worth it in the end.” 

“But this seems like a _lot_ of work. And the whole Disney thing… I don’t know, Charlies. Isn’t it a little… juvenile?” 

Charlie just shrugs. “Nothing good comes easily. And Disney is _not_ juvenile, it’s awesome. And _totally_ applicable here.” 

“Alright,” Sam says, downing the last of his third beer. “I’ll bite.” 

Clapping gleefully, Charlie shuffles on her barstool to face him more fully. “Disney movies are formulaic. Identifiable romantic tropes are only part of that. The characters, their traits, even the outcomes are similar from movie to movie. Romantic lead, hero, heroine, villain, damsel in distress, wacky sidekick, you get the idea. Repetitive, sure, but people _like_ watching themes they can readily identify and relate to. People gravitate towards the straightforward, the uncomplicated, the undeniably clear. It doesn’t have to be _easy,_ it just has to make sense. And for good reason. We _are_ simple, or at least, our basic wants and needs are.”

Signaling the bartender for a refill, Sam motions for Charlie to keep talking and then abruptly cuts her off. “Alright, psychology lecture aside, I think I’m following so far. Extrapolate that concept to traits that may even be negative but people see as integral parts of their personality and that’s how you get the flawed hero and the humanized villain.” 

“Whoa, take it easy there, Professor,” Charlie says with a grin. “But yea, now you’re getting it. _Ursula,_ man. She was totally misunderstood. Heck, most Disney villains are.” Charlie shakes her head ruefully before snapping it up again and sticking her finger in the air. “And _that_ is why this is totally gonna work. Whether they mean to or not, if we set the scenes correctly then Cas and Dean will find themselves automatically making the associations _we_ want them to make in their heads. Disney is just a way to set the scene, to push them together. If we treat them like the romantic couples in the movies, they’ll start seeing themselves in those same roles. Or at least, that’s the idea. Subtle, but effective.” She clinks her glass against Sam’s newly-filled one, even though he doesn’t raise it. “It’s going to work because we’re going to make them think it’s all _their_ idea.” 

“So, do we start with that, then? The characters?” 

For the first time, Charlie hesitates. “Scenes, I think,” she says slowly. “The characters aren’t relevant enough until you contextualize them. It’s too broad of a brush. I mean, let’s be real. Dean is pretty enough to be a Disney Princess, never mind a Prince. And animals seem to be weirdly drawn to him. But it’s not like Cas doesn’t already know that, he does have eyes. Pointing those type of things out isn’t exactly going to help push them together. We gotta think _bigger._ Sebastian-bigger. _Lumiere_ bigger! Hell, friggin’ Genie of the lamp, even.” 

Sam groans, barstool likewise creaking underneath him as he shifts, his ass getting sore on the hard wood as his brain becomes increasingly fuzzy. “I don’t know why I didn’t make the connection until now that in this scenario, _we_ are the wacky sidekicks.” 

“I’m more of a Merida myself. You know, the badass redhead who solves her own problems and don’t need no man to rescue her, but sure, I guess you’re right. For this specific purpose, we are the wacky animal sidekicks. I call Mushu!” Setting her drink down, Charlie regards Sam carefully, tapping her fingers against her glass as she comes to some sort of conclusion. “If Dean were here, he’d say you’re a Sebastian, for _sure._ ” 

“Remind me why I agreed to this?” 

“ _More_ often?! Anyway, back to business. Character-wise, _Cas_ is more complicated than Dean.”

“That’s for sure.”

“ _Because_ Dean’s on the heroine’s journey, not because he’s uninteresting. His situation is just straightforward, with a clear path. Like Elsa, in _Frozen!_ Cas, on the other hand, he’s the quirky love interest,” Charlie continues, ignoring Sam making a face into his beer at being made to think about Cas as a _love interest_. “We don’t know for sure what his motivations are because _he_ doesn’t know yet. He’s awkward. All the most relatable love interests are awkward as hell. Anna ends up falling on top of Hans within minutes of meeting him and then gets him tossed in the water seconds after that. Aladdin’s _constantly_ tripping over himself around Jasmine, Tarzan’s a mess around Jane, the Beast is a disaster around Belle, Rapunzel… well, she’s awkward with the entire world. 

“Being awkward is endearing _,_ but the _other_ thing all of those characters have in common is believing they have to be something they aren’t for the person they’re interested in to love them back. The characters _only_ get together when they decide to give up theoretical perfection in favor of embracing who they _are_ and what makes them special. Meanwhile, the hero or heroine almost always loves them already, for and not in spite of their quirks. See where I’m going with this? That’s _totally_ Cas and Dean.” 

“Sure,” Sam agrees. “I guess I’m just cynical when it comes to those two. I’ll believe they’re capable of sharing their feelings when I see it. Or you know, preferably when I _don’t_ see it.”

With a shrug, Charlie slides her empty across the bar, drops a couple of bills next to it and hops down off of her stool. “Fair,” she says as she slips her shoulder bag back on and turns towards the door, tipping her head for Sam to follow. “But we’re still gonna try,” she tells him. “Come on. I know for a fact that your bro and the almost-love of his life are going on a stakeout tonight.” She checks her watch. “We’ve got… about forty-five minutes until they’re gonna be heading out. Thankfully, the police station is right down the street. I have an awesome idea for our first scene, no advance preparation needed.” 

“I feel like I’m going to regret this,” Sam grumbles and Charlie once again reaches up to pat his shoulder reassuringly.

“Not when you have your whole house to yourself,” she reminds him and Sam has to admit, she has a point there.

***

Several hours later, Charlie and Sam are kicked back at said house, the one Sam shares with his brother and Castiel. They’re set up in the living room, watching with waning interest as their plan is put into motion. The watching part isn’t _exactly_ legal, strictly speaking, and if Charlie were _anyone_ else, Sam wouldn’t be caught dead within one hundred yards of what she’s currently doing. Especially considering his job and the fact that the last place he would ever want to end up is on the other side of the bars, housed among criminals, the majority of whom _he_ helped put there. 

But Charlie isn’t just anyone. She’s the smartest person Sam knows and she’s been both hacking and covering her tracks since before Sam had to shave his face. And while undoubtedly, some of her ventures veer well over the line into illegal territory, Sam tends to ignore those things for the sake of their friendship, since Charlie’s heart is (mostly) in the right place, and she’s done a lot of good for the world. Though, Sam would also be lying if said he didn’t occasionally wonder at what _cost_ some of those things have been done, but that’s neither here nor there tonight. The point is, he trusts her to cover their tracks.

Ethics aside, right now Charlie is tapped into the wireless drive cam bolted to the dash of City Police Squad Car Seven, Dean and Cas’ shared work vehicle. They’re parked somewhere on the west end of the city, staking out a house Sam’s already received the heads up is likely a hub for drug trafficking. If there’s one thing Sam knows from hearing relayed accounts from Dean, it’s that stakeouts are often boring as hell. Hours and even days of just sitting around, unable to leave and not nearly enough information or probable cause to act. This one looks about par for that course, with Dean and Cas both settled into their seats like they don’t expect to be moving any time soon.

It’s the perfect setup for Charlie’s idea, honestly. Sam has to hand it to her, she’s clearly been sitting on these possibilities for a while, whether she admits to it or not. Their first operation has been aptly dubbed, “Kiss the Girl,” after the song Sebastian the crab sings to the Little Mermaid and Prince Eric when they’re similarly alone in a boat. While Sam hasn’t seen the movie since the early nineties, one of the times he was left alone in a motel that miraculously had the Disney channel, Charlie assures him it’s a bang-on comparison. 

Except, they’re realizing, perhaps too much so, because just like Sebastian, this attempt to get Dean and Cas to consummate their relationship has so far been a wash. 

“That mixtape is _unbelievably_ romantic,” Charlie grumbles. “Only a sociopath could remain emotionless to “I Want to Know What Love is,” _especially_ when the person they’re hopelessly in love with is sitting right next to them. Blargh!” 

“You did get Dean to sing along to Air Supply,” Sam points out helpfully. “That sorta seemed like it could have gone somewhere. For a minute.” 

“Cas just laughed. I mean, sure, he turned the heart eyes on high, but he looks like that half the time anyway when Dean’s in the room. _Ugh_.” 

Sam just shrugs. “At least they can’t get the tape to eject. They’ve only made it through the whole thing one and a half times, maybe we just need to wait it out.” He stabs his fork into the salad bowl on his lap and then stuffs a heap of lettuce into his mouth while Charlie seems to weigh her various thoughts. 

“Maybe,” she concedes. “Hopefully Dean doesn’t get fed up and go digging around in the tape deck, though. I only used a paperclip to jam the thing in, a quick poke at the edges and he could probably figure out exactly what happened there. On the plus side, there’s no way to turn the volume off. _That_ I rigged from the inside.” She leans forward and squints at the screen of her laptop, where a live streaming video of Dean and Cas is playing in greyscale. “He doesn’t seem all that motivated, though, does he? Like, can you believe this? The two of them are perfectly happy to sit there and listen to the sappiest love songs _in history_ like this isn’t incredibly romantic and inexcusably gay. _How_ do they justify this crap as platonic? Do they even have brains behind those two sets of dreamy eyes?” 

Raising his eyebrows, Sam shakes his head in disbelief. “Your guess is as good as mine, Charles.” 

***

“Weeeeee’ll staaaaay _foreeeeever this way, you are saaafe in my heart and my heart will go oooonn and onnn."_ Dean sucks in a breath after belting out the last note, turning his head to grin over at his partner and best friend sitting in the passenger’s seat of their work vehicle. It’s the third time tonight he and Castiel have had to listen to this song, but Dean’s not going to let a little thing like a broken tape deck fuck with the fact that he got to spend a whole shift hanging out with Cas at work. The stakeout is officially over, ending up being a whole lot of sitting in exchange for a whole lot of nothing, but all the better for Dean to enjoy having Cas to himself. 

“Come on, sunshine, lighten up,” Dean prods, reaching over to poke Castiel just underneath the ribs, exactly the way he knows he hates. For his efforts, he gets a small smile and a slap to his hand, which pleases Dean to no end. No one else would get away with antagonizing Cas like that. No one but Dean.

It’s hard being in love with Cas, having _been_ in love with Cas for over a decade now, but their friendship is worth the heartache. At least, that’s what Dean reminds himself whenever he falters, whenever he feels weak or thinks he might not be able to keep up the act. There was a time— _ages_ ago at this point—when he thought Castiel might possibly return his feelings, but the man never acted on it. 

And Dean _tried,_ alright? He flirted and pushed Cas’ buttons every chance he got and still Castiel quietly and persistently maintained the status quo. So Dean resigned himself to friendship being all that he was going to get, and even though a lot of days it still hurts, Cas’ friendship _is_ worth all of the strife. 

It helps that Cas is ace or whatever. At least Dean doesn’t have to deal with him parading around significant others or moaning into someone else’s mouth just on the other side of the shared plaster wall that separates their rooms. Being subjected to _that_ every weekend might have been enough to push Dean over the edge, friendship or no, but thankfully, it’s just not a hurdle he has to jump. 

In turn, Dean keeps his one-night-stands and infrequent hookups away from their house out of respect. Definitely not because he’s still holding out hope for the off chance that Cas will come around someday and fall in love with him back, because that would just be… crazy. 

Although, what would be even _crazier_ is Dean gradually ceasing to hook up with anyone at all because he can’t get his mind off of his platonic best friend, partner, and roommate. Three long years since he's had sex with anyone at all (besides his hand)? Yea, definitely crazy, and yet here he is. With his thoughts quickly turning dark as they drift into the realm of resentment, Dean scowls openly at the dark road in front of them as he navigates the car back to the precinct. 

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, sensing the shift in his mood immediately despite Dean not having said a word. Without waiting for a reply, he reaches over and places a hand on the arm Dean has slung over the middle console, and Dean struggles not to rip it away. It’s not that he doesn’t want Castiel to touch him, it’s that _adding_ Cas’ touch to the kind of thoughts he was lost in can be confusing, and will almost certainly make him feel worse. In the end, Dean manages to wrestle his demons down and keeps his arm still, burning under Cas’ palm. 

Castiel removes his hand anyway, though it’s only so that he can try fruitlessly (again) to lower the volume of the sappy music. He frowns when the dial continues to stick and Dean has to bite back a smile at the little creases that dent the middle of his friend’s forehead. _Fucking adorable._

“Nothing, man,” Dean lies. “Just, you know.” He fakes an exaggerated yawn and stretches for emphasis. “Tired, is all.” 

“Oh,” Castiel says and weirdly, he sounds a little disappointed. “Well, we can certainly skip the drinks and movie when we get home. You should get your rest.” 

“Hell no,” Dean sputters, course-correcting as quickly as possible having not realized that his cover story would potentially railroad him out of “accidentally” falling asleep on Castiel’s shoulder three beers in. “Been lookin’ forward to that all damn day. And no movie, there’s a new episode of Dr. Sexy recorded on the DVR at home.”

“Right,” Castiel acknowledges, his tone lighter this time. “I’d forgotten it was Thursday.” 

“Long week,” Dean mutters, pulling smoothly into Car Seven’s assigned spot outside the precinct. “You need anything from inside?”

“Grab me my lunchbox? It’s in your locker. I’ll start the car in the meantime, it’s chilly.”

“You got it.” Tossing the keys to his Impala over to Cas, Dean exits their work vehicle and strides confidently inside the station. He waves to Donna at the front desk, checking in briefly to make sure nothing that needs a detective’s attention came in while they were out. After putting their assignment off status, Dean wanders back to the breakroom and opens his locker using the combination he and Cas use for all of their passwords anymore. It’s just easier than trying to remember more than one. 

He grabs Cas’ lunchbox and his own jacket, slamming the door shut before popping over to the time clock and punching them both out. It’s a familiar enough routine, though Cas does it for him as often as he does it for Cas. Either way, it’s worked into both of their muscle memories to include the other as they go through the rote motions of daily life. 

Shivering in the cool night air, Dean pulls on his jacket as he exits the station, juggling Castiel’s lunchbox hand to hand as he does. The man himself is already inside Dean’s car, tucked comfortably into the passenger’s side, just like always. The outline of his head is silhouetted by the Impala’s headlights reflecting off the white wall it’s parked in front of, and Dean aches. It’s tough today for some reason, to see Cas like that, looking so at home in Dean’s space and yet so goddamn out of reach. 

Maybe it’s the love songs, or maybe it’s just the years of wear and tear on Dean’s heart, but it _almost_ makes him want to do something crazy, something way out of character for him.

And if he’s being _really_ honest with himself, it’s not just today that he’s had those quiet inclinations. Sometimes in his darkest thoughts, Dean thinks about it. Thinks about just grabbing Cas, kissing him wild and passionate and just saying, _to hell with it, let’s see what happens._ Maybe Cas would slap him across the face. Maybe he’d laugh. Maybe he’d fucking kiss back and they’d live happily every after. Most likely, he’d pack his shit and walk swiftly out of Dean’s life, never to be seen again.

It’s that last possibility that roots Dean to the ground, stops him cold where he stands. That harsh reminder that he can look, he can love Cas from afar or from as close as Cas will let him, but he can’t touch, can’t cross that line. Not if he wants to keep him. And fuck Dean’s life, he _does._ He does want to keep him. He swallows hard and shakes himself off, opening the car door and sliding into the driver’s seat like nothing is wrong and all is right with the world. “Home?” He prompts Castiel, who’s got his laptop open and is presumably writing up their brief joint report on the stakeout.

Castiel blinks as he looks up at him, eyes adjusting from the brightness of the screen to the thick darkness inside the car. He smiles at Dean warmly and Dean tingles. “Home,” he agrees.

***


	3. Be a Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyrei art is in this chapter!! *drool*

“La la la la la,” Sam sings, sticking fingers into his ears as Charlie tries for the third time to explain the reasoning behind her new plan. “I get it,” he reassures her, still not removing his pinkies as he shifts around on the couch to look her in the eye. “I don’t need the dirty details.” 

Tucked up into the cushions on the other end, Charlie sighs and unfortunately, Sam can hear her perfectly well despite the makeshift ear plugs. “I mean, you do need to know,” she protests. “If I have to be scarred by all of this, so do you. That’s what partners-in-crime means, equal sharing of the scar-worthy burden.” 

“Whatever,” Sam says with a roll of his eyes, but he unblocks his ears and gestures for her to continue. “Get it over with.”

With a non-subtle clearing of her throat, Charlie sits up straighter and places her fingers back on the keyboard of her laptop. “Ahem. As I was saying, Dean showed me the recordings from last year’s tactical training class, back when he was still only thinking about signing up for the SWAT team. You’ll be unsurprised to hear that his holdup was that _Cas_ didn’t want to do it, but that ends up working in our favor, so we’ll pass on mocking him, just this once.” 

“That’s weird,” Sam interjects, preventing Charlie from continuing unhindered with her long-winded ramble. Brow furrowed, he leans in towards his friend, arm draped over the back of the couch. “Cas is even more into the tactical stuff than Dean. He’s always volunteering to go out on warrant service and he never shies away from hopping into the fray of a riot or whatever. Why would he pass on that class?” 

A little shrill of pure delight flies out of Charlie’s mouth as she turns her laptop around to face Sam. “ _Exact-_ a-mundo,” she says smugly, reaching around to click play on the pre-loaded video filling the screen. In front of Sam’s eyes, a handful of extremely buff men, most of them bare-chested and wearing only shorts with sneakers, sprint and dart both through and over various obstacles. 

At first, Sam can’t figure out what he’s watching or why Charlie would show him this, especially since the whole premise appears to hinge on testosterone-fueled, well-muscled men showing off exactly how physically adept they are. And why would… _oh._ Suddenly, he gets it, and kind of wishes that he didn’t. “This is the footage from last year’s tactical training camp.” Charlie nods in gleeful affirmation, grinning as Sam’s brain puts the rest of the pieces together. “And Dean will be… and _Cas_ doesn’t trust himself to watch Dean run around shirtless—oh, gross.” Shaking his head, Sam screws up his face as he pushes the laptop back in Charlie’s direction. “Brain cleanser needed.” 

“Agreed,” Charlie replies a lot more solemnly, before brightening again. “But _perfect_ opportunity, am I right? There is _no way_ we are letting him pass this up. Plus, _bonus_ , super easy string-pulling to make it happen. Cas is on the rotating roster of EMT-certified cops who are willing to staff events and trainings like this. They get like, a stipend or something at the end of the year just for being on the list, but if they’re called up they have to work whatever event is needed or they get booted off completely. Cas just worked a Fun Run like two months ago so he really should’ve gone back to the bottom, but, you know.” 

She shrugs innocently and bats her eyelashes. “Technology, it’s a bitch sometimes. What can you do? Anyway, Cas isn’t gonna bother going head-to-head with Adler over something like that, he’ll just do it and then complain the whole time, so it’s basically foolproof.” 

“I hate to ask how you plan to listen in on this one,” Sam says warily.

“Oh, that one’s easy! I can _guarantee_ Cas is going to text and ask me to make sure he’s actually at the bottom of the list once he gets the news. It’s like a built-in failsafe for my very own genius plan because when he does, I’m going to offer to go with him as a consolation prize for him having to go at all.” 

Folding her arms across her chest, Charlie smiles smugly while Sam just stares in mild horror. “You’re terrifying, do you know that?”

Charlie looks down her nose at him and wiggles her eyebrows. “Don’t you ever forget it,” she replies.

Clearing his throat and shaking his head, Sam tries his best to casually change the subject, though he’s pretty sure he does a crap job of disguising his secret interest. “So… out of pure morbid curiosity, which movie is this one from?” So sue him, Sam likes the classics, and he can’t remember a scene where hot, muscled men training half-naked shows up in either Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty.

“ _Mulan_ ,” Charlie declares. “More or less, anyway. Mulan and Shang are best friends first, he comes to respect her when she climbs the wooden pole to retrieve the arrow for the first time. At his training camp.” Sam raises an eyebrow and Charlie looks a little guilty. “Alright, so I stretched it a _little._ What if we also happen to be taking advantage of Dean’s Disney princess looks this time? Plus, there’s the whole physical capability and stamina thing.” Charlie wiggles her eyebrows. “There’s nothing wrong with reminding Cas of what he’s missing… in bed.” 

“That’s enough,” Sam replies abruptly, holding up a hand to stop Charlie and her elaborating in its tracks. “I’m good, don’t need to hear any more, thanks. Loose excuse for _Mulan_ , check. Let’s do it.” 

***

Mornings are not Castiel’s friend. No matter how big the cup of expensive coffee is that Charlie tries to pacify him with as she slides bright-eyed and _way_ too bushy-tailed into the back of Dean’s car, it’s _still_ six AM and it’s _still_ dark outside and Castiel should therefore _still_ be in bed. 

“Morning,” he grunts gruffly around the first sip of dark-roasted relief, because he does appreciate Charlie coming, and he’s not (entirely) devolved into an animal. Fortunately, Dean is awake enough for the both of them, so adorably pumped about what the day is going to bring that Castiel feels no need to participate intelligently in the conversation at all. Besides, he’ll be sitting on the sidelines with Charlie for the next six hours at least. Castiel’s very sure they’ll cover every possible topic of conversation she has up her sleeve and then some. 

And no offense to Charlie, but her company doesn’t make him any happier to be doing this. On top of the whole morning thing, which, _ugh,_ there’s also the fact that he very much wanted to take this class himself and ultimately refrained from signing up for one _very_ specific reason. A reason which is now sitting next to him, oblivious to Castiel’s warring shame and desire, about to get half-naked and torture him with sweaty, flexing muscles for the better part of the day. 

_Idiot,_ Castiel fumes internally. He should have just signed up. Now, not only does he have to subject himself to the exact thing he was aiming to avoid, but he can’t even vent his frustrations through running and working out alongside the rest of the class. This has all been a series of very, very bad decisions and Castiel has a long day of self-flagellating scheduled to deal with it. 

By the time they get to the training site and Dean splits off, waving goodbye to Cas and Charlie as he jogs across the field to join the other participants, Castiel’s mood is downright foul. On the plus side, that should go a long way towards preventing any unbidden physical reactions from popping up. On the other hand, it’s clearly irritating Charlie, who keeps side-eyeing him with unmasked concern. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel grunts, likely sounding not very sorry at all as they sit down on the worn bench next to the training grounds. This is his base of operations for the day, offering a giant Igloo water cooler at one end and several first responder bags stuffed underneath. He knows he should at least do a supply check, but right now Castiel’s just too annoyed. With any luck, no one will get hurt and he won’t even need to open them, anyway. “It’s just that I did one of these events not two months ago. I shouldn’t be anywhere near the top of their call list. Someone screwed up, and now I’m paying for it.” Castiel knows the last words of his sentence come out more bitter and obvious than he should allow, but with the sun barely poking its pink rays up over the horizon, he’s finding it very difficult to care.

“So you said,” Charlie replies carefully, wrapping her jacket tighter around her body as she shifts against the bench. “Well, sorry you got dragged out here, Cas, but I did check the list for you and you’re definitely at the bottom now. I’ll keep an eye on it, ‘kay? Because I _wuv_ you.” Batting her eyelashes, Charlie scoots close enough to rest her head on Castiel’s shoulder and he sighs, vowing to at least _try_ to be less ornery today, for Charlie’s sake if nothing else.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, tipping his head to the side and touching his cheek to her flaming-red hair. “You’re a wonderful friend.” 

“Better believe it,” Charlie mutters and briefly, Castiel wonders if there’s something more behind that statement. Ultimately, though, he brushes it off. It’s not like there’s any reason for Charlie to keep anything from him, he’s probably just indulging his own bad mood again. There’s no time to dwell on it anyway, because somewhere across the muddy obstacle course someone blows a whistle, and the class begins. Suddenly, Castiel has a _lot_ more to focus on and none of it is good for his emotional health. 

Despite his best intentions, Castiel knows his mood only gets more sour as time goes on and Dean gets sweatier. It’s not like anyone (least of all _Charlie)_ could blame him, and for half of a second, he considers letting Charlie in on his woes. She’d understand, likely even empathize. She’d completely let Castiel vent and complain and cry on her shoulder, and it takes some kind of inner strength for Castiel to remind himself that’s _exactly_ why he can’t. Charlie was Dean’s friend first, _is_ his best friend still. And while she’s become a friend to him too, Castiel can’t be sure her loyalties to Dean won’t trump that. Surely she’d feel obligated to let Dean know that his best friend, his work partner, his _roommate_ is lusting after him—worse, is _in love_ with him—and has been for over a decade. 

And no doubt Dean would find that creepy as all get out, would probably kick him out of their home, might even want a new partner at the precinct. Ten plus years of friendship down the drain because Castiel couldn’t control his stupid feelings and emotions. A hot rush of shame washes over him and he stares down at the way the toes of his black work boots sink into the muddy grass with just the slightest pressure. Dean can _never_ know, can never find out. This is a burden Castiel must bear alone. Must get _over_ alone, somehow. 

And yet, he knows at this point how unlikely that is to happen, since wishes are not horses. It’s not as if he hasn’t been trying for the last ten years to do just that, _get over it._ He’s dated here and there, slept with a few people just to see if it would help, but it never, ever has. When Dean started assuming he was ace, it just seemed easier for Castiel to go along with that. At least he didn’t have to come up with some other reason for why he didn’t date, why he spent all of his time with someone who is supposed to be his platonic best friend. Castiel supposes it doesn’t help _him_ that Dean is apparently aromantic, either. 

All those things considered, it’s way too easy to fall into the pattern of pretending their time together, their _friendship_ is more than it is. All of that, the sum of it, in the end is nothing more than wishful thinking. Castiel might as well wish upon a star, for all the good it’ll do him. 

“Hot damn,” Charlie remarks from her place on the bench next to him. Her piqued interest immediately draws Castiel’s attention back out of his head because it’s not as if Charlie usually pays any mind to the male form. He looks first over at her before making the fatal mistake of turning his attention to the field, where Dean is currently using a rope to scale a vertical wall not twenty feet in front of them. 

_Huge_ error on Castiel’s part, since once he lays eyes on Dean, he can’t rip them away. Somewhere between the last time Castiel glanced over and now, Dean’s ripped his shirt off. He’s doing the course in nothing but a pair of black basketball shorts and black sneakers, looking every bit the picture of a chiseled Greek God in the golden morning light. As he works his way hand over fist up the rope, toes bracing against the wooden wall, Dean’s traps and deltoids flex and bulge, shiny and glinting with sweat. 

Embarrassingly, a strangled noise escapes the back of Castiel’s throat unbidden. He flushes full on from face to chest but thankfully, Charlie just laughs. “I know, right?” is all she says, but she elbows Castiel in the side. “Quel hottie, your Dean.” 

“He’s not _my_ Dean, Charlie,” Castiel manages to retort, but his cheeks are red and stinging and he can only hope that anyone looking their way just thinks he’s hungover or mad or something. 

“I dunno,” Charlie hedges and Castiel narrows his eyes because she’s _way_ too calm and casual, when Charlie is _anything_ but calm and casual on a regular basis. She rushes to continue, stuttering a little as if she knows she’s been caught. Caught doing what, that’s the question. “Even I’d ha-have a hard time saying no if _that_ walked around half-naked in _my_ house all the time, that’s all I’m saying. You know? I mean, how is it you two have never hooked up? At least to… you know, blow off steam or whatever.”

Somehow, Castiel forces himself to tear his eyes away from Dean, who is now straddling the top of the wall and cheering for himself. His perfectly sculpted pecs and the tiny bit of softness around his abdomen from too many burgers and too much pie that absolutely _no one_ who didn’t already know the details of his body would notice are causing Castiel’s mouth to water, so that’s probably for the best. “Charlie, what are you doing?” he demands.

“Nothing!” Charlie replies, too quickly and _way_ too innocent to be true. Folding his arms and glaring, Castiel holds his position, waiting until she sighs and relents to so much as breathe. “Nothing, I swear,” she says, holding up three fingers in the Girl Scout “on my honor,” sign. “It was just a question. You guys just seem so good for each other, almost a perfect match. Can’t blame a girl for wondering.” 

That hurts, more than it should, mostly because it hits incredibly close to home. Castiel looks back just as Dean dismounts, dropping to the ground in a controlled crouch, his fingers barely grazing the tips of the grass as he balances on the balls of his feet before standing back up. Running a hand through his sweat-darkened hair, Dean takes off running again and Castiel closes his eyes so that they won’t follow. 

“Dean just doesn’t think of me that way,” he says softly, not bothering to add any sort of lie about himself. Castiel tilts his head up towards the sun to soak it in, and because his eyes are still closed, doesn’t catch the pleased yet devious smile that spreads across Charlie’s face. 

Though it’s unlikely it would have registered anyway, since every single one of Castiel’s thoughts are currently occupied imagining the curves of Dean’s sweaty, toned body pressing forehead to toe against his own. 

***


	4. Tramps Like Us

Unlike the other scenes Charlie and Sam have attempted to set so far, their _Lady and the Tramp_ vignettes are more of a marathon than a sprint. The premise is simple: at every available opportunity, Charlie or Sam will intervene to create a scenario where Dean and Cas are forced to share whatever it is they’re eating or drinking. At first glance, Sam thinks this one seems comparatively easy to the others, but boy was he wrong—except, _not_ because it doesn’t work.

If Charlie has been the mastermind of their plans so far, Sam makes up for that with his sheer commitment to this task alone. It only makes sense, since he lives with the two oblivious idiots, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t exhausting. After a week or so of finding reasons to keep extra cups and dishware out of his roommates’ hands, Sam’s essentially left on autopilot, seizing opportunities without even thinking about how it might come off to anyone _not_ him. 

Finally, Dean cracks, and while he probably should be, Sam isn’t remotely expecting it. 

“Dude, what is up with you?” Appearing in the doorway to the kitchen with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, Dean doesn’t look amused. “You said you were coming back here to do the dishes an hour ago. Me and Cas are out there sharing _one_ beer bottle. _Again._ ” Walking over to the fridge, Dean opens it up and pulls out the _actual_ last beer and sighs as he waves it in Sam’s face.

“Oops,” Sam replies guiltily, hardly having to fake that emotion at all. “Guess I didn’t see that one.” 

“It was right—you know what, never mind,” Dean says with a shake of his head. “You got any clean glasses, or what?” 

“Uh…” Stammering nervously, Sam looks back and forth from the dirty dishes still piled up high in the sink to the half-empty running dishwasher. 

Cocking his head, Dean regards him curiously. “Seriously, man, you alright? You’ve been acting weird all week. You stressed, or what? Is this some kind of _Hoarders_ situation? If I open the door to your room, am I going to find magazines dating back to 1970 all piled up to the ceiling? Dead cats buried under stacks of women’s clothing?”

Waving him off, Sam turns around and actually does start doing the remaining dishes in the sink in the hopes that it’ll end this painful conversation. “ _No,_ Dean, and seriously? You and Cas need to lay off the binge-watching. I’m just trying…” Sam pauses, wiping a soapy arm across his forehead as he grapples for some sort of explanation, latching onto the first semi-reasonable thing he can think of. It’s weak, something he doubts Dean will buy, but it’s at _least_ moderately in line with his own personality. It’s better than hoarding, anyway. “I’m just trying to help us be more green around here,” he explains, eyes focused intently on the suds. “The health of the environment is important, and it’s not like you and Cas _mind_ sharing.” 

Without turning around, Sam can sense Dean’s eyes boring holes into his back and as such, he starts to prepare himself mentally for a confrontation. There’s no way he’ll be able to make it through an entire argument about this with Dean without blowing their entire plan and admitting to what he and Charlie have been up to lately. Sam’s never been great at lying to his brother, and beyond the whole “save the planet” schtick, he’s got nothing remotely prepared to even attempt it. But after the better part of a minute ticks by with no retort, Sam can almost _feel_ Dean shrug and turn away. 

“Hmm. I guess you’re right, Sammy,” he says easily, which is shocking. “Whatever, it’s all good. Cas and me don’t mind sharing stuff if it’s that important to you. I promise I’ll keep it in mind, so long as you stop hoarding the dirty dishes like a freak.”

From that day forward, Sam barely has to intervene at all because Castiel and Dean do all the hard work and dancing around for him. With increasing horror and subsequent resignation to the idea that the two of them are _never_ going to get their heads out of their asses, Sam watches as both of them struggle to make increasingly flimsy excuses to split everything from beers to slices of pizza, to burgers, none of which have any business being split at all. 

In the end, Sam supposes he’s at least still tangentially useful, since he’s heard both Dean and Cas more than once reference his name from the other room as the reason why they have to go so hard with this stuff. 

“It’s important to _Sam,_ ” Dean will say, plucking a whiskey tumbler from Castiel’s hand and placing it back inside the cabinet as he passes over his own. 

“Well, I suppose if Sam feels that strongly about it,” Castiel will reply just as easily, drinking from Dean’s glass without a moment’s hesitation. Pressed against the other side of the wall, Sam listens incredulously at the doorway, unable to believe this is his actual life. 

***


	5. Be Our Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyrei art in this chapter!! Hot tub!Cas and Dean *heart eyes*

This particular Friday is _dragging,_ and not only because Dean’s workload is dull as all get out. Reports of damaged property, a stolen vehicle, and an arson incident on the nearby mountain with exactly zero leads were all waiting for him at his desk this morning. However reluctantly, Dean’s been buried in the most boring investigations and paperwork in history ever since. The only bright spot of his day was heading down to the bullpen in time to see Castiel, suit jacket off and clad only in rolled-up shirtsleeves and his leather shoulder holster, throw some insolent asshole halfway across the room. 

The guy was just some drunken douchebag doing his best to fight his way out of the station, handcuffs and all. Unfortunately for him, he made the mistake of headbutting Donna, who is an awesome cop and maybe the only person in the world Cas likes as much as Dean. And Dean can relate, Donna is pretty damn cool. She can hold her own in the field and ain’t afraid to put away a few donuts, laughs at Dean’s crappy jokes and always has an encouraging word for anyone in need. Hell, Dean would ask her out himself if he wasn’t so hung up on… other things.

Point being, the incredible monotony of fourteen completely useless interviews for his stack of dry-ass cases is broken up very effectively by the surprise show Cas puts on for the entire bullpen. It’s a good thing the situation isn’t anything that requires Dean’s assistance, though, because as soon as he walks in the room, Dean’s basically rooted to the ground. 

_Hot,_ his brain supplies helpfully as Castiel manhandles the arrestee and sends him flying over Benny’s desk when he fights back instead of cooperating. The fabric of Cas’ white button-down stretches taut across his shoulders as he moves, that shirt maybe half a size too small now that Cas has been bulking up. It hides absolutely nothing, least of all the ripples in his traps and the strong flex of his biceps, and Dean has to casually side-step over to the water cooler because his mouth is abruptly the fucking Sahara. 

Not to even _mention_ the situation in his pants, which is borderline dire, but thankfully, everyone’s attention is focused on the squabble. And it _is,_ ultimately, a squabble, not nearly multi-faceted enough to be called a fight. Not once the guy goes flying and Cas unquestionably has the upper hand, anyway. In all his tan-forearmed glory, Castiel steps neatly over Benny’s toppled chair and reaches down to pick the dazed suspect up by the scruff of his neck as easily as a mother dog might scoop up one of her puppies, if not quite as gentle. All the bluster seems to have gone out of the suspect at that point, and he resignedly lets Cas relocate him to the nearest holding cell just down the hallway. 

That gives Dean enough time to get himself together, slap on a smirk, and lean casually against the water cooler in a way that belies nothing about what he was dealing with only moments prior. So when Castiel rounds the corner, scowling and straightening his cuffed sleeves ( _God help Dean)_ , he’s ready. “Rough day, sweetheart?” His tone is mocking but Castiel’s certainly used to it, simply rolling his eyes and accepting the half-drunk paper cup of water Dean holds out for him to take. “Nice moves,” he adds, because they were. It’s an objective statement, really. 

“I’ve been practicing,” Castiel mutters humbly around a sip, but his eyes twinkle and crease at the corners. “Been letting Benny throw me down and pin me a few times a week to round out my regular exercise routine.”

“What?!” Dean squawks indignantly before swiftly attempting to cover his outburst with the worst fake cough in history. Castiel raises his eyebrows and stills his cup midway to his mouth as Dean sputters. “I just mean, I would have practiced with you.” 

It’s not the worst backtrack in history, but internally Dean is fighting hard to shove down the jealousy he feels at imagining _Benny_ sparring with Cas. Sparring is all sexy and intimate, what with the sweating, and the bodies pressing together, and the potential for straddling. _Fuck, was there straddling?_ Alarmed, Dean glances over at Cas to find him already looking back quizzically, clearly doing his best to figure out why Dean seems so bothered. _Reel it in, Winchester,_ he scolds himself. 

“You know, because I can always use the practice and stuff too,” he explains lamely, but by some miracle, Castiel seems to accept that for what it is.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Cas tells him and involuntarily, Dean’s substituting Benny for himself in the mental scenario. All of a sudden it’s _him_ straddling a sweaty, half-naked Cas in his daydreams, which quickly gives rise to the previous pants problem all over again. Crossing one leg over the other in what he hopes conveys the casual-nonchalant attitude he lost somewhere around when Cas turned the corner, Dean clears his throat and tries to change the subject. 

“So, beers tonight?” It’s a rhetorical question, there hasn’t been a Friday since the two of them made detective that they haven’t hit the bar down the street to knock back a few after work. “Unless you have plans with Benny, or something.” _What_ is _wrong_ with him?!

Unsurprisingly, Castiel looks at him like he’s nuts. “I’ll come find you when I’m ready to leave,” he says, clapping Dean on the arm affectionately before walking away. The broad stretch of his shoulders filling Dean’s vision has him flashing back to the way Cas manhandled that guy, and once again, Dean’s mentally substituting himself into the scenario. Except, in his daydream Castiel doesn’t throw him _over_ the desk, but clears it off with one arm and—

“Oh, brother, you’ve got it bad.” Dean snaps his head up to see Benny grinning and shaking his head, the cap of his pen sticking out of the corner of his mouth and a stack of file folders tucked underneath his arm. 

“You shut up,” Dean grunts, snatching the folders from Benny’s grasp and hightailing it towards the interrogation rooms before his friend can say another word. 

***

Their shifts theoretically end at five, but as it turns out, both Castiel and Dean are tied up with loose ends that need to be secured before the weekend. That works out well enough, since neither of them has to hang out with nothing to do while the other finishes up. That’s happened plenty of times before, neither of them ever considering just finding their own way home and leaving the other to do the same when they’re able. Dean supposes that might be a little weird, but he and Cas are tight like that. Anyway, none of their friends or co-workers have ever commented on it, other than to say how nice it is that the two of them support each other so unconditionally, so Dean figures it can’t be _that_ strange. 

Just as he’s finally putting the crowning touches on the arson case (a campfire supposedly gone wrong and then abandoned, Sam and his ADAs will have to decide whether to pursue charges or not), Dean’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Expecting Cas, he swipes it open without so much as glancing at the screen and sticks it to his ear. “Sup, sunshine?” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line and then his brother’s voice saying, “Dean?” in a confused tone. 

Grimacing, Dean switches the phone to his other ear, already foreseeing that he’s never going to hear the end of this. “Uh, sorry, Sammy. Thought you were Cas.” 

“You thought…” Again Sam pauses, but smartly, he decides to drop the issue and move on to whatever he was calling about in the first place. “Alright, Dean. Anyway, I have kind of a weird offer for you.” 

“You’re finally gonna let me borrow that Zorro mask you wore for Halloween so I can fulfill my dreams of being slapped by a woman wearing one during sex!” Grinning gleefully, Dean imagines the face Sam must be making on the other end of the line. He’s only sorry that he can’t be there in person to see it. 

“Seriously Dean? Gross, what is wrong with you? No, that’s definitely not what I was going to say.”

“Out with it, Sammy,” Dean demands as Castiel appears in his open doorway. With a twitch of his fingers, Dean motions for him to come in. “Sam,” he stage-whispers, covering the phone’s microphone with his hand as he does, not that it matters if Sam hears. 

“So, this weekend is Eileen and my anniversary. We’ve been dating for a year.”

“Aw, Sammy! That’s just adorable, you keep track of that shit? Eileen’s one lucky chick,” Dean tells his brother, scribbling a last few signatures into the awaiting boxes on his paperwork as he talks. Cas showing up means he’s done, and Dean’s more than ready to get out of the station for the night, too.

Sam’s responding sigh is so loud Dean tips his head to move his ear away from the speaker and almost drops the phone. “The point is, Dean, I set up this whole romantic evening for her here. Home-cooked meal, dessert, wine, candles, rose petals, champagne on ice by the jacuzzi, the works.” Dean whistles but doesn’t interrupt again. “I know, right? So I prepped it all but then I got called into work, something about one of my new guys screwing the pooch on that murder case we’re trying right now. Sucks, except come to find out, Eileen got called in too. Labor and Delivery is apparently feeling the effects of the full moon. She never made it over and I sort of had to run out of the house with everything still set up. I know you and Cas usually do your bar thing on Fridays, but I really need you to go home and blow out the candles and stuff. I figured as a reward you can eat all the food I made, split the alcohol with Cas or whatever.” 

“Hell yes,” Dean replies, wiggling his eyebrows at Castiel who squints back. “Free food,” Dean explains and Castiel makes a knowing “ah,” shape with his mouth that doesn’t distract Dean at all. “Sure Sammy, I got your back.”

“Stop calling me Sammy,” Sam grumbles. “Anyway, I’m probably gonna head to Eileen’s when I do eventually get out of here. We’re thinking of grabbing brunch tomorrow morning to make up for all this.”

“Sounds good,” Dean tells him. “Use a condom. Or don’t, I’m ready to be an uncle.” He hits the red button to hang up even as Sam is still bitching back at him through the open line. “Good news and change of plans,” he informs Cas. “Sam’s loss is our incredible gain. We’re goin’ home.”

***

The thing about the Jacuzzi that lives on the side of the patio behind the little house Dean shares with his brother and Castiel is that it’s never worked. In fact, from the day they all moved in up until today, it’s been lifeless and covered in several different kinds of mold, one of which was red and _very_ angry-looking. None of them were ever interested enough in the idea of using the Jacuzzi to voluntarily come anywhere near that mess, so Dean has to assume it’s only gotten worse over the years. 

Because of that, Dean has absolutely no clue what could possibly have driven Sam to start cleaning, but the sparkling plastic beauty with the clear, enticing water he’s looking down at is proof positive there was _something._ For whatever it’s worth, Dean’s money is on Eileen, love-struck puppy that Sam is these days. 

The surprises don’t stop there, either. Next to the freshly-cleaned tub sits a metal bucket on a stand, the kind Dean’s only ever seen in movies and wasn’t sure actually existed in real life. But here it is, filled with champagne and ice that’s probably not even necessary, thanks to the falling temperature outside. It’s all so nice that for a minute, Dean feels somewhat guilty. 

Inside the house, there’s a delicious spread that had to have taken Sam hours to cook. The lights are dimmed with scarves on the lamps and there’s romantic music playing, candles and rose petals everywhere. If he were any kind of good brother, Dean would blow the candles out and put the meal in the fridge, save it all so that Sammy could enjoy it with Eileen when they both have the time. 

But Dean’s already on his second slice of homemade apple pie, shoveling it out of a bowl held in his hands as he stares down in disbelief at the bubbling water. Eh, Sam wouldn’t have offered all of this up if he thought he could salvage its remains. _Probably._ At least, that’s what Dean’s telling himself. His decision is definitely not influenced by the idea of Castiel relaxing only feet away, wet and mostly naked, also handsy and cuddly in the way he inevitably tends to get when he’s tipsy. 

_Not at all._

With a start, Dean suddenly realizes he’s not the only one standing there, turning his head to find Castiel squinting down at the tub with equal confusion written all over his face. In one of his hands is a giant glass of wine, mostly emptied, and in the other is the uncorked bottle ready to refill it. The little noise he makes has Dean popping a half-smile reflexively, the way he always seems to do when Castiel does something cute. 

“Was that—did Sam _clean_ this?” The answer self-evident, Cas just looks up at Dean with eyebrows raised. “Why?” 

“Hell if I know,” Dean replies with a shrug. “Gift horse. Mouth. You coming?” He doesn’t wait for Castiel to answer before he starts stripping, down to the boxer briefs he’s extremely glad are a dark color today. As Dean swings a leg over the side of the hot tub, Castiel follows, albeit a bit more slowly. 

“ _Hot,_ ” Dean hisses, lowering himself into the foam-capped water gingerly, reaching over to knock the temperature down a few degrees as he does. As more and more of Castiel’s skin is revealed, Dean makes himself busy studying the dials, because the alternative is open gaping, which is probably not the most subtle choice. 

“Are you sure this is clean?” Castiel asks hesitantly, swishing his hand around in the water before shaking it off and sending droplets flying. He’s still holding his shirt up over his bare chest and Dean honestly isn’t sure if he’s grateful or annoyed about that. 

“Probably not,” he replies, answering Cas’ question about the water with a shrug. “Come in anyway, we’ll get sick together.” As soon as he says the words, Dean flushes and hopes he can blame it on the steaming heat of the tub. _We’ll get sick together? Jesus Christ, Winchester._ But Castiel just smiles and finally drops his shirt, either Dean’s words or the chilly air winning the battle as he climbs in with obvious trepidation. 

Once again, Dean struggles not to stare as Castiel sinks down, his thighs filling out his own boxer-briefs in the most ridiculous way not usually seen outside men’s underwear modeling. Even worse, the way his hands brace against the edge of the tub makes his biceps and deltoids flex, the steam rising around Castiel’s body and making him seem somehow ethereal. It’s terrible, it’s the worst thing Dean’s ever seen, and he aggressively rips the foil and pops the top off of the champagne bottle to distract himself. The cork goes flying and lands somewhere out in the yard, Dean doesn’t care, he’s never retrieving it. Once he’s seated, Castiel moves to recover his wine glass from the ledge and knocks both it _and_ the bottle down onto the patio, where they smash dramatically.

“Oops,” he says, and then Dean knows he _must_ be tipsy, because he giggles. 

“No worries,” Dean assures him, floating his way to Castiel’s side in order to peer over the edge and assess the damage. It’s pretty bad, glass shards and a giant pool of dark red wine spreading everywhere, but it’ll keep. Dean turns back around, taking a giant swig directly from the mouth of the champagne bottle before handing it over. “S’not like we can’t share this one.” 

Castiel looks back at him with wide, glazed eyes and an appreciative smile before accepting the bottle and taking a sip himself. He goes to balance it on the side again but Dean manages to save it right before it meets the same splintered fate as the wine. He shifts the bottle to his other hand and is just tipping it back for another mouthful when he feels a presence against his flank and freezes. 

“Dean,” Castiel slurs, and Dean’s starting to wonder if Castiel’s had a _lot_ more wine than he let on. Underneath the water, Castiel closes the space between them and curls into Dean’s side, knees on top of Dean’s thigh and head on his shoulder. “You’re _such_ a good friend, Dean,” he murmurs sleepily, a hand drifting lazily across the top of the water to come to rest on Dean’s chest. 

The thing is, yes, Dean’s fallen asleep on Castiel tons of times, but the difference is that those moments can _always_ be interpreted as accidental, at least on Castiel’s part. Dean makes sure of that. There’s also the fact that in all these years, Cas has never once reciprocated by resting on _him,_ so this is a first. And, more importantly, they’re _nearly naked._ Unsure what to do and barely breathing, Dean hesitantly lets his arm wrap around Castiel’s bare shoulders. “Is… is this okay?” he asks, and Castiel nods against the skin of his neck.

“S’nice,” he says with a sigh. “Didn’t sleep well last night. Nightmares.” 

Well, that explains the drinking. Shifting in his bucket seat, Dean tries to carefully make himself more comfortable without disturbing Cas. He needn’t have worried though, as Castiel just burrows tighter into his neck and side once he’s settled. “About me again?”

“Mmm,” Castiel acknowledges vaguely. “Always.” He’d finally disclosed to Dean a few months back that there’s a recurring nightmare plaguing his dreams, one where he and Dean are dispatched to some kind of call or another and Dean is hurt. In every scenario, Castiel is unable to prevent it or to save him. All different calls, lots of different ways, the only common factor being that Dean dies and Castiel is left feeling as if it’s his fault. The nightmares often jolt him awake and render him sleepless for the rest of the night, leaving him tired and struggling to cope the next day.

It’s distressing, but not such an unusual thing to dream about, Dean thinks, not in their line of work. Lots of close friends and partners in emergency services worry about each other this way. Nearly everyone harbors some sort of deep-seated emotional fear about loss and failure. It doesn’t mean anything more than the obvious—that Castiel cares about his well-being and worries about not being able to do his job to the best of his ability. It’s not anything more profound than that, of course. 

It’s just that, with Castiel tucked into his side the way that he is, with so much of their skin on display and pressed together in ways it _never_ has been before, that’s hard for Dean to keep in the front of his mind. The damp spikes of Cas’ hair tickle Dean’s nose when he tips his head down the barest inch, and Dean has to get out of here, _right now._ Resolved, he sets the champagne down precariously once again and nudges Castiel.

“Buddy,” he says softly. “Let’s go inside, dry off, you can fall asleep to a movie on the couch.” 

But Castiel doesn’t budge, doesn’t move at all. Dean shakes him and he _snores._ He fucking _snores._ The bastard fell asleep on him! In a _hot tub, outside,_ in forty degree weather _._ And from the looks of things, it’s a pretty heavy, drunken sleep too.

If there’s one thing Dean knows, it’s that waking Cas when he’s exhausted and has alcohol in his system is a nightmare in and of itself. He groans and sinks back against the wall of the tub, making sure Cas’ face remains above the water when he does. Well, they can’t stay in here all night, but Dean definitely can’t carry the six-foot wall of muscle that is his best friend inside by himself. Hopefully, after a twenty-minute or so power nap, Cas will be rested enough to wake up and stagger the several dozen feet to his room. 

That _is_ eventually what happens, though when Castiel makes it inside, blinking blearily and dripping water all over the damn place for lack of a towel, all Dean can wish is that they were back in the hot tub again. Cas, with his water and steam-mussed hair, his sleepy eyes and his beautiful body, feels like he _belongs_ pressed up against Dean, their bodies fitting together like they were made to be that way. 

The feeling is so strong that when Castiel rubs his goose-pimpled arms and yawns, waving tiredly at Dean as he shuffles off slowly to his room, Dean _almost_ goes after him. It would be so damn easy to do so, to grab Cas by his thick upper arm, yank him around and kiss him the way Dean’s been dreaming about for over ten years. 

Maybe it’s the heat from the water combined with the alcohol that’s messing with his self-restraint today, at least, that’s the easy explanation. But Dean knows he barely drank any of that champagne, and for a guy who can put away several shots and a trio of beers and still be sober enough to drive, that’s not gonna take him anywhere near the level he’s trying to excuse. 

No, if he’s drunk on anything at all, it’s Cas’ presence. Lately, it just seems like the universe is pushing him at Cas, and pushing Cas back at him. Which would be great, if Cas had _ever_ given any iota of an indication whatsoever that he feels the same way, but he hasn’t. 

So Dean just has to remember that. He scowls and grabs a couple of towels from the laundry room, one for himself and one to mop up all the puddles he and Cas have tracked across the floor. When he’s done, he pulls on fresh boxers before putting away the leftovers from Sam’s meal and retreating to the couch with several fingers of something _much_ stronger than the champagne in hand. 

He _should_ clean up the spill on the patio, but Sam isn’t even coming home until God knows when so it’ll keep overnight, for a time when Dean’s at least moderately less depressed. Casting a last glance over at Castiel’s closed door and reluctantly accepting that it’s probably not going to open again tonight, Dean flips on the movie he’d chosen earlier and watches it alone. He barely registers any of it.

***


	6. Friend Like Me

“We’re calling this one, _“Dean Can’t Lose,"_ and it’s based off the part in _Aladdin_ where Aladdin asks the Genie to make him look like he’s a real Prince. You know, because he can’t win Jasmine over as a street rat, and he can’t lose as the Prince who’s already stolen her heart!” 

They’re in Sam’s office again, Charlie’s feet kicked up and crossed at the ankles on the edge of his desk. With a sigh, Sam looks up at her over the rim of his reading glasses, the ones Eileen finally talked him into getting when he came home with one too many temporal headaches. They make him feel old, but his eyes do seem less tired, at least. “Wasn’t the lesson there to be yourself? Granted, it’s been a while since I’ve seen the movie, but I’m pretty sure Jasmine gets seriously pissed at Aladdin when she finds out he lied.”

“Psh,” Charlie replies, waving her hand dismissively. “Semantics. Besides, Dean isn’t going to be the one lying, _we_ are! Totally different. He just gets to reap the benefits.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Sam motions for her to continue while he returns to scanning the case files in front of him. Unlike Charlie, he doesn’t have the luxury of only working when he wants to and from wherever in the world he happens to be at the moment. This alleged arsonist isn’t going to repent and change his ways because Sam’s attention can’t be diverted away from his dumbass brother’s non-existent love life. 

“Don’t worry,” Charlie tells him, apparently reading his thoughts. “This one’s heavy on the outside interference, and I know you’re busy, so I’ve enlisted some help.” That pings Sam’s radar and he raises an eyebrow as he lifts his gaze. “Don’t _worry,_ ” Charlie says for the second time. “If there’s anyone out there who understand what you and I go through, it’s Benny. He has to live with them making googly eyes at _work._ Over dead bodies and stuff, even.” With a shudder, Charlie shakes that mental image off, red tendrils of hair slapping her cheeks as she does. “Blech. Anyway, he’s in, thinks we’re geniuses,” she says proudly.

“If you say so,” Sam replies, because he does trust Charlie, and she’s not wrong about Benny. He’s shared more than one look of disbelief with the guy behind Dean and Cas’ backs, enough to realize it’s no surprise he’s on board for popping that bubble of sexual tension in any way possible. “Just don’t go trying to recruit Bobby. Our uncle or not, he takes his job as Chief of Police seriously, and if he thinks you guys are messing around on paid time, he’ll out us to them for sure.” 

“Duly noted,” Charlie acknowledges before glancing down at her watch. “Oh, I gotta run! Phase one of the plan is scheduled for this afternoon.” Doing his best not to show his relief at finally being left alone to do his work, Sam waves her off with a small salute. “I’ll update you, watch your texts.” Charlie disappears out the door with a flash of red in her wake and Sam sighs again. When exactly did Dean’s personal business become _his_ whole entire life?

***

Charlie’s update messages come inconsistently. Sometimes they’re an hour apart, sometimes there are several days in between, but they do come. Unfortunately, this scheme doesn’t appear to be any more successful than the last and the one before that. Secretly, Sam is starting to lose the tiny shred of hope he’s been clinging to that _anything_ they do will be enough to pull down the walls Dean and Cas have built up to keep each other at arm’s length. Despite that, he’s remiss to burst Charlie’s carefully crafted bubble—she’s put _so_ much time and effort into making this happen. It’s hardly her fault that Dean and Cas are idiots. 

Still, Sam can’t help thinking that maybe it’s time he and Charlie throw in the towel. They could approach this thing like adults, sit the two oblivious detectives down and demand that they hash out their feelings. Or if that doesn’t work, lock them in a room together and refuse to let them out until they bang. 

Cringing at the thought, Sam decides right then and there that if it comes to that, he’ll pass the torch completely to Benny and hunker down with Eileen until it’s over. After all, there’s only _so_ much a brother can take.

***

_Charlie: Apparently these two switch off paying when they do their once a week lunch date thingy. Dean forgot his wallet today, but Benny slipped a $20 into his pants pocket. Who the hell finds $20 and doesn’t question it?! Cas looked happy._

_***_

_Charlie: There’s a food drive happening. Adler organized it for PR, but it benefits that tent city on 4th Street so they can have a nice Thanksgiving. Same one Cas sometimes hands sandwiches out at? Benny told Cas that Dean put the drive together, seems like he bought it. Hopefully he doesn’t ask Dean lol_

_***_

_Charlie: So remember that beehive out back of the station? Singer called someone to exterminate it but Benny overheard. Talked Dean into helping him relocate it, got those space man outfits and everything. Made sure Cas saw them doing it. Said he’s never seen him smile so big! Course, he told him it was all Dean’s idea. Dean will say it was Benny’s, making him look all humble and stuff. BRILLIANT._

_***_

_Charlie: omg Sam. You are not gonna believe this. Benny and I came up with this idea to do a bunch of little things for Cas, make it look like it was Dean. You know, leave him coffees and pastries. Tape little notes to his desk, small gifts, press his dress uniform, you get the idea. Sam, Dean was ALREADY doing all of those things!!!!!! Anyway, we made sure Cas found out it’s been Dean all along, but I think he knew._

_Sam: This is never going to work._

_Charlie: We’re not done yet! I’ve got something big up my sleeve._

_Sam: Seriously, we should just force them to sit down together and talk._

_Charlie: Your brother doesn’t *talk*, Sam. Neither of them do! C’mon, let me work my Fairy Godmother mojo. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s a makeover montage._

_Sam: You know you have to do more than parade around in front of the mirror while “Walking on Sunshine” blasts in the background for it to count as an actual makeover?_

_Charlie: You just worry about getting Dean to the fundraiser gala on Friday. I’ll take care of the rest._

***


	7. Magical Makeover ‘Til Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Anyrei art, and this one is my fave <3

There was nothing in the “Become a Detective” brochure that talked about hobnobbing with the city’s social elite to raise money for the department, and Castiel resents that doing so is in any way a part of his job description. Nevertheless, this is his reality. Like it or not, Castiel’s task this Friday night is to grin and bear the mind-numbing smalltalk and casual groping by socialites so that the cruisers can get new laptops or whatever other gear upgrade Adler’s angling for. He supposes it wouldn’t be _so_ bad, except that the timing means that his and Dean’s regular Friday night hang-out at the bar has to be scrapped in favor of uncomfortable suits and half-filled glasses of tepid sparkling wine. 

Honestly, after Cas’ last experience with drinking wine ended with him passing out on Dean’s chest in the hot tub, he’s unsurprisingly in _no_ rush to try it again. Sure, he was also exhausted at the time, but something about the way wine goes down and hits in a delayed fashion makes it difficult to track. As he’s so well-demonstrated to himself, he can’t be trusted when he’s _that_ intoxicated around Dean, and that’s a problem. To think of how close he’d come to spilling his secrets, well, it makes Castiel want to lock himself in his office and never come out again. 

Not to _mention_ that his behavior resulted in an unsuspecting Sam cutting his foot when he’d tried to use the Jacuzzi the next morning, something Castiel thinks he’ll likely feel guilty about for a very long time. Despite having driven Sam to the urgent care and paying his insurance co-pay, Castiel continues to worry about making it up to him. 

He supposes he could just try _not_ drinking nearly an entire bottle of wine all on his own, but the very thought of enduring that gala even semi-sober has him wishing for a glass already. The whole thing is just a setup for failure and Castiel’s not looking forward to any of it. 

So on Friday afternoon, when Chief Singer stops him in the hallway and mentions that Garth called off for the weekend with the stomach flu, Castiel jumps at the opportunity to cover for him. Any legitimate excuse to get out of going to the gala (and suffering through the “makeover” Charlie had somehow talked him into accepting beforehand) is _just_ the ticket, and Castiel is elated. 

_Un_ fortunately, Castiel misunderstands what Chief Singer is asking, his boss only clarifying _after_ Castiel’s accepted taking call for the weekend that this doesn’t mean he can’t go. Because of course, Singer wants him to take call _while_ he’s at the gala, and not instead of it. _Great._ Now he _has_ to be sober _and_ find a way to keep the smile plastered on his face for the whole night. 

With any luck, someone will die and Castiel will get to leave, but he’s not getting his hopes up.

To drop a cherry on the top of this shit sundae, Dean’s doing some brother thing with Sam before they both head to the gala and thus, he leaves right after his shift without Castiel in tow. The break in their usual routine plus the fact that Castiel won’t be able to get ready with Dean only serves to further sour his mood. By the time Charlie rolls up in front of the Precinct in her yellow Gremlin, there might as well be a dark cloud hanging over Castiel’s head and spitting rain for how terrible and grumpy he feels. 

The thing is though, it’s hard to stay miserable around Charlie, especially when she’s determined to make him laugh. Somewhere between Castiel sliding into the passenger’s seat and pulling into Charlie’s driveway, Castiel finds his bad mood evaporating like the early morning fog. And by the time they’re cloistered in Charlie’s spare bedroom, unwrapping a giant gift box containing a specially ordered suit that Castiel can’t protest enough to convince Charlie to let him refuse, he’s actually feeling pretty damn good. 

Good enough to let Charlie sit him down in a chair and buff, pluck, and powder his face into oblivion, despite his misgivings. She assures him he won’t look, as Dean would put it, _“like a painted whore,”_ but Castiel remains slightly terrified, at least until he’s able to get in front of a mirror and check out her handiwork. To his surprise, with his hair artfully spiked with gel in a way he’s never personally bothered to perfect, he just looks like a more polished, refined version of himself. Reluctantly, Castiel has to admit that the result is kind of impressive and not at all inclusive of any skills he would have thought Charlie possessed before today. 

As he smooths down the fabric of his suit, pivoting to check his reflection from various angles, Castiel finds himself wondering if Dean will even notice the changes in his appearance at all. He supposes there’s only one way to find out. 

***

“I don’t understand why Cas couldn’t just come with us,” Dean complains as he navigates Baby into the lengthening queue of the drop-off line for the gala. Glancing into the rearview mirror, he scowls at Sam and Eileen cuddled up together in the backseat. Since they’ve stopped moving, Dean turns around so that Eileen can see his lips when he talks. “You two are truly disgusting together, you know that? I feel like some kind of underpaid chauffeur. If Cas were here, at least we wouldn’t look so stupid pulling up like this.” 

“No, we’d look like two couples on a double date,” Eileen replies smugly and Sam barks out a laugh. Dean doesn’t miss the way they exchange glances and Sam squeezes her waist.

“Charlie needed a date,” Sam replies absently and doesn’t offer any further information than that, so Dean just pouts to himself and lets it go. At the moment, he’s way more concerned with Eileen mocking him, because that’s new.

“What’s… what’s all that about?” he asks, circling his finger as he points it in their general direction, but focusing on Eileen. “Since when do you join in on making fun of me and Cas?” 

“Nothing’s going on, Dean.” Sam sighs as he answers in defense of his girlfriend. “Don’t get all worked up, no one cares that you and Cas act like you’re married. The line’s moving, you better go.” 

Still suspicious, Dean huffs but turns back around. “We’re just friends,” he mumbles as he eases off the brake, signing _“friends,”_ again emphatically as an afterthought for Eileen’s benefit. Still, for whatever reason, his protests sound less convincing than usual, even to his own ears. Stewing on that, the closer they get to the front of the line, the more irritated Dean gets, though he tries his best not to let on. 

To the right of the car line, there’s a wide red carpet rolled out over the steps leading up to the Art Museum and several hired photographers shooting guests like celebrities as they exit their vehicles and walk up them. The tuxedoed cameraman at the very top is stopping those who try to escape the limelight, forcing them to pose in the most visible spot of all. 

If it weren’t for the beautifully restored classic automobile in line in front of them, Dean would be a lot more worried about all that, but as it is, he’s busy admiring a fellow vintage car lover’s work. With some disappointment, he notes a sticker on the back window that denotes the ride is from a rental service, but even still, whoever hired them must have good taste. The ‘67 Ford Mustang could _almost_ rival his Baby in glossy paint and impeccably shined chrome if it weren’t for the fact that it’s, you know, a _Ford_. 

With interest, Dean watches as the car is waved forward into the unloading zone by one of the valets and as the two occupants sitting in the back exit. He doesn’t even get a chance to check out the woman on the left, since the dude on the right captures his attention from the moment he straightens up. 

Without being able to see his face, Dean whistles appreciatively at the way the dude’s expensive-looking, cut navy suit stretches perfectly across his back, like he was sewn into it. 

“Like something you see?” Sam asks with a note of amusement that Dean would probably be a lot more wary of if he wasn’t so busy ogling. 

“Nothing wrong with appreciating the human form, Sammy,” Dean replies distractedly. In fairness, the way the suit hugs this guy’s torso and thighs, along with his artfully styled hair and the confident way he carries himself, well, maybe Dean’s considering breaking his three-year chastity streak tonight after all. It’s not like he’s holding out for anything that’s ever going to happen, anyway. So long as this dude isn’t some flighty socialite, Dean’s pretty sure he can make this work. His eyes follow greedily as the man skirts the photographers, but he obviously wasn’t paying attention to the guy at the top’s M.O., because he’s grabbed before he can slip inside the building and turned around to face Dean’s direction. 

_Holy shit._

“Cas,” Dean murmurs in disbelief, and it’s obvious that Sam filled Eileen in because she starts giggling hysterically in the back. “Shut up,” he signs aggressively, eyes still glued to where Cas is _dominating_ the top of those stairs in a way that once again makes Dean’s mouth go dry. The suit, the sapphire-blue waistcoat and tie, the hair that looks like it came out of a salon, hell, it’s _all_ working for Cas and it’s doing a number on Dean, too. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t—When I said he… Oh, God.” Dean hangs his head. 

“Sure, Dean,” Sam says pityingly, reaching forward to pat him on the shoulder. “Of course, you weren’t looking at Cas like that.” 

Saved by the waving valet, Dean puts the car back into drive and pulls it forward. Apparently this event is full service, and despite arguing with the guy attempting to slide into the front seat of his car as soon as he exits, Dean’s forced to relinquish his keys when Sam points out the growing line behind them. As he follows his brother up the steps, glancing warily back at his Baby being driven away, Dean fails to notice Charlie appearing at his side. 

“Hey, stranger!” She takes his arm and near-drags him up the red carpet to where Cas is still hanging out at the top, a true feat considering the long dress she’s nearly tripping over as she does. Sam and Eileen stop somewhere around the middle of the steps to have their picture taken, and suddenly Dean is being shoved at Castiel with _no_ buffer at all between them. 

While Charlie looks fantastic in her gauzy, sapphire blue gown, Dean vows not to tell her so as punishment for doing this to him before he has a chance to regain his composure. There’s also the fact that she _matches_ Cas, and despite both of them being some of the gayest people Dean’s ever met in his life, he feels a flash of jealousy at the idea that they look so much like a couple. Inwardly, he curses the emerald green tie Eileen had talked him into, saying it would bring out his eyes. Not that she was wrong, but Dean can rock a blue like nobody’s business, too. _Why didn’t he pick blue?!_

Clearing his throat and trying not to be too stiff, Dean lets the photographer guide him next to Cas, so close that he’s practically tucked into Dean’s side. Keeping his eyes on the camera as the man holding it steps back to snap the picture, Dean forces a smile. 

“Hey there. Lookin’ good, buddy,” he says softly between flashes, noting that Charlie gets away scot-free with standing off to the side and smirking at them. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies, reaching up to fix Dean’s tie once the photographer dismisses them. “You look quite dashing yourself.” With his fingers at Dean’s throat and his body unusually close, this event is quickly becoming one of Dean’s worst nightmares made flesh. 

Cas’ look is even more spectacular up close, the bright, metallic-infused blue of his waistcoat and tie making his eyes stand out even more than usual, and Dean’s drowning in them. He only remembers to move because Charlie coughs loudly from where she’s standing and waiting while holding the door open. When Dean finally manages to rip his eyes away from Cas’, it’s to find her, Sam, and Eileen all staring and biting back similar, knowing smiles. 

“Not a word,” Dean growls at Sam as he storms by him in a huff. Inside, the doors open immediately into a giant foyer with high ceilings and extravagant chandeliers. Over a hundred other people in formalwear mingle and laugh to the soundtrack of soft classical music and tinkling glasses. Dean’s eyes search out the crowd for two things in particular and he finds them both immediately; a waiter with a tray of drinks, and one with the mini-cheeseburgers Bobby promised would be served. He halts the dude with the glasses and downs two before replacing them and taking two more, reflexively handing the second off to Cas without so much as a blink of hesitation. 

Of _course_ Sam’s there to see it, snorting as he brushes by them both on the way to introduce Eileen to the cluster of Judges Dean’s already clocked socializing across the room. His face burns and he covers by stuffing one of the little cheeseburgers into his mouth whole. As he chews, Dean’s eyes sweep the room for an excuse, an out, anything to get away from Cas and the way he looks tonight. Luck isn’t on Dean’s side, though, and before he can find a reason to bail, there’s a soft touch on his arm, just below where his dress shirt cufflink rests against his skin. 

He doesn’t even have to look down to recognize Castiel’s fingers closing over his wrist, and just that barest touch makes Dean tense and relax at the same time. _How is that even possible?_

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, close enough that Dean knows if he turned his head to the side, he’d be looking into the depths of those ocean-blue eyes. “What’s wrong? Did I...Did something happen at work, or…” Castiel trails off, his tone sounding painfully insecure and… disappointed? That can’t be right. 

Shaking his head, Dean sighs and turns, and _there,_ their eyes lock and Dean’s fucked. “No,” he replies, doing his best to soften his tone in the same way his resolve to get away has melted inside of him. 

Scanning the room one last time, Dean suddenly can’t think of anything he’d rather do less than make small talk with these people. And what’s the point, anyway? If they’re going to donate, then they’ve likely made that decision sometime prior to pulling on their fancy suits and dresses. Spending a couple of hours low-key flirting and casually groping hot cops isn’t likely to open up any wallets that aren’t already turned upside down. 

“You know what,” Dean says. “Fuck this.” 

Twisting his wrist so that it slips free from Castiel’s grasp, Dean mirrors the previous gesture by grabbing Castiel’s arm and pulling him fast around the edge of the room. No one gives them a second glance as they slip out a side door Dean happens to know leads to the staging area the caterers use (alright, so he once hooked up with a waitress at one of these things, but that was years ago). 

As they pass through, Dean grabs a bottle of sparkling wine and motions for Cas to gank a tray of cheeseburgers, and they escape together out onto the balcony the museum uses for their seasonal outdoor exhibits. _Freedom._ Dean inhales the crisp, cool air, relieved that it’s not particularly biting outside today, and sighs happily.

Being that it’s nearly winter, there’s nothing set up on the balcony now, but there is seating, as well as a pretty sweet view overlooking the city. They choose a bench and sit down silently, Castiel placing the food tray in between them as Dean uncorks the wine. After taking a big swig, he tries to hand it over but Castiel waves him off, placing the still-full glass he already has in his hand down on the ground next to his foot. 

“I’m on call,” he says apologetically.

Narrowing his eyes in confusion, Dean shifts to more fully face his friend and downs another swallow straight from the bottle. He could have sworn he had a glass of his own in his hand at some point, but it’s gone now. “We’re not on call this weekend,” he says, almost petulantly. “Garth and Vic are.” 

Castiel’s face is guilty when he looks up at Dean. “Garth is ill. If it helps, I didn’t quite understand what I was getting into when the offer to cover him was made. Well,” he amends, breaking their stare and directing his own out over the darkened skyline and its dense smattering of lights. “Honestly, I thought it would get me out of this altogether.” 

“Rude,” Dean complains. “You were going to strand me at this thing alone? Do you _hear_ this music? That alone has to be some form of medieval torture.” 

Castiel chuckles and tips his head to the side, presumably listening for the bland instrumental chords trickling out through the tinny speakers mounted somewhere overhead. He reaches over and squeezes Dean’s hand against the bench. It’s a surprising gesture that Dean is not nearly tipsy enough to forgo realizing is much more intimate than they usually are with each other. Especially considering that Castiel is stone-cold sober and intends to stay that way. But then Cas withdraws it, taking the warmth of his hand with him, and it’s like the moment never happened. 

“So,” Castiel says, pinching a cheeseburger and taking a page out of Dean’s book by shoving it in whole and then carelessly talking with his mouth full. “However shall we pass the time until we can escape?” 

In response, Dean grins and stuffs his own mouth full, too. “More of these seems like a good place to start.” 

***

If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say this was a date. It’s _not_ a date, it can’t be a date, because this is _Castiel._ This is the man who has been like a brother to him, who _sees_ him like a brother in return. Who sleeps one wall over in his house, closer than his _actual_ brother, even. Castiel, who Dean has been best friends with for over ten years, who works by his side and rides in his car and does the dishes after Dean cooks them both dinner. It’s _Cas,_ and the only thing Dean knows for sure about _anything_ in this world, is that _Cas_ doesn’t feel that way about him. 

And sure, Dean is tipsy and verging on drunk, so maybe his intuition is a little bit off, but it’s not like Cas doesn’t know that, not like he hasn’t watched the progress of Dean’s intoxication himself. The hours they sit and talk, joking and laughing and pilfering more food and drink from inside while skirting all the brass that are undoubtedly looking for them, fly by faster than any Dean can remember in recent history. Something feels different and Dean has no idea why, has no recollection of anything between him and Cas _shifting_ or changing in a way that would remotely lead him to this conclusion. 

And yet… there’s something about the way Cas looks back when Dean makes eye contact. Something about the manner in which he goes out of his way to _touch,_ to duck his head so that his forehead brushes Dean’s shoulder when he laughs. Something about the way his phone buzzes in his pocket with “ _Where are you?!"_ messages from everyone they know and Castiel doesn’t leave, doesn’t even consider it. 

And now they’re dancing, slow and stupidly clumsy to the shitty elevator music that’s still all this party has to offer in terms of entertainment. But Dean can hardly complain, not now, not when Cas has an arm around his waist and a hand entwined with his own, spinning them both around in dizzy circles while Dean grins so hard his cheeks hurt and simultaneously tries not to vomit. 

He doesn’t even remember how they got here, not really. One of them said something about how the socialites inside had likely moved on to bribing their co-workers for dances and _oh,_ that’s it. Dean had admitted that he’s always been able to avoid that very thing in previous years, that he did so intentionally because he really can’t dance, can’t even fake it. 

And Castiel had said, _of course you can dance, everyone can dance, Dean,_ tugging him up onto his feet even as he grumbled a dissenting reply. And now they’re here, pressed close _but not close enough,_ spinning and whirling, Castiel even trying to dip Dean in a move that has him ultimately losing his balancing and collapsing to the ground. That wouldn’t have been as dramatic as it ends up being if Castiel had just _let go_ and let Dean fall, but Cas is a white knight, always has been, and he goes down with him. 

The way they land should be awkward as hell, Cas splayed across Dean’s chest, one leg rucked up by his hip and a hand behind his head, protecting it from smashing against the cold concrete. 

“Thanks,” Dean murmurs, because he has to say _something,_ with Cas’s face only inches away, his blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded. _He’ll get up any second now,_ Dean tells himself, but Castiel doesn’t, doesn’t move at all, just uses his free hand to smooth a drooping tendril of hair back off of Dean’s forehead. Just down the street, City Hall’s clock chimes midnight, the deep bell tones ringing and vibrating in Dean’s ears more than usual as Castiel’s face only moves closer. 

_Is he dreaming?_

Knowing that there’s a solid chance he actually _did_ hit his head and passed out right here on the ground, Dean’s drunken mind tells him he might as well go for it. Closing his eyes, Dean leans in, so close he can feel Cas’ warm breath ghosting across his lips. 

As the clock chimes eight and then nine, the moment shatters, broken by the buzzing of Castiel’s work phone in his pocket. Like a knife to the heart, Dean can feel the vibrations on his own skin through the fabric of his shirt and his eyes fly open. With a sharp intake of breath, Castiel rolls off of Dean and sits up, pulling the phone out and swiping across the screen before lifting it to his ear. “Novak.” 

With a shaky exhale, Dean pushes himself up too, brushing off his suit and getting to his feet. He’s unsteady, and he hopes either Sam or Eileen stayed sober enough to drive, because there’s no way he’s leaving his Baby here overnight. Cas is still mumbling in the background as Dean starts to collect their trash and empties. If it’s midnight, then the party is over. Actually, Dean can’t remember when it was technically supposed to end, and he wonders if Sam and Eileen stranded him here in retaliation for disappearing. 

Dean gets his answer when he pulls out his own phone, the screen full of similar messages as to the ones Cas was getting earlier regarding their whereabouts. He should probably feel guilty about ignoring his friends and co-workers, but one quick glance out of the corner of his eye towards Cas and Dean can’t even pretend. He wouldn’t have traded tonight for anything, and he’ll gladly take whatever punishment Bobby is planning to dole out to keep these memories.

Thankfully, in addition to the bitching, there’s also a message from Sam with directions to where Baby is parked. It comes with the assurance that Sam retrieved her keys from the valet before they closed up shop and says he stuck them up inside the rear wheel well. He finishes by explaining that he and Eileen caught a ride home with Charlie in her classic rental and that Dean should thank her because otherwise Sam would have definitely stranded him at the gala without a second thought. 

When Dean finally looks up, Cas is off the phone but he’s texting furiously. “Sorry,” Castiel says absently. “There was a suspicious death, I need to go in.” 

With a yawn, Dean does his best to suppress his drunken state. “Anything you need help with?” 

Castiel stops texting and looks up at him in amusement. “It’s a probable suicide. Likely just a heap of paperwork, you know how that goes. And would I love to have you along to equally share in the unfair burden that is rote investigation documentation? You know that I would, but unfortunately, in your current state I’m afraid that showing up to an active crime scene, however routine the job, would result in Chief Singer _actually_ murdering us,” he replies before pushing his way to standing and offering Dean a hand up, which he takes. “Come, I’ll drive your car home before I head in to work. Sam sent me a message describing where she’s located.” 

“Me too,” Dean says and the two of them pause, holding questioning eye contact for a moment before Dean shrugs. “Probably just being helpful, right?”

“Hmm,” Castiel replies noncommittally. He links an arm through Dean’s, probably because Dean’s not doing the best job of walking upright on his own, and leads them back inside the museum. Despite what Cas’ phone call may or may not have interrupted, it’s like they’ve snapped right back to how they always act together, as if that surreal moment on the balcony never happened at all. 

On their way out, Dean drops off their dishes with the still-cleaning up caterers, several of whom shoot him dirty looks. It’s hard to be apologetic when he’s had one of the best nights in recent memory, though, so Dean just flashes them his most charming rueful grin and leaves them to their work. 

The party’s completely cleared out as they wander through the empty event space, though debris still litters the floor and the red carpet still covers the museum steps. Dean can hardly believe he lost track of time so easily, but then again, he’s always found it easy to get lost in Cas. Surreptitiously glancing over at the man by his side as they descend the steps arm-in-arm, Dean notes that Castiel looks equally peaceful, if somewhat rumpled, in comparison to how he started the night. 

It’s not good to hope, Dean learned that lesson years ago. That sort of wishful thinking only leads to broken hearts and emotional wounds that can’t be healed by chasing the bottom of a whiskey bottle. But when Cas catches him staring and rewards him with a brilliant smile, Dean just can’t help it. Maybe a _tiny_ sliver of hope isn’t the _worst_ thing in the world.

***


	8. Wish Upon a Star

“Everybody loves the hypothermia trope,” Charlie insists. They are, once again, in the War Room otherwise known as Sam’s office, where the amount of actual work getting done for prosecuting purposes may or may not have reached an all-time low. “And even though meteors aren’t _technically_ stars, I think it’s close enough to count as _Pinocchio_ -inspired _.”_

“Everyone but the long-suffering brother who is somehow going to wind up the doing cleanup for _something_ or other we never saw coming.” Charlie opens her mouth to protest, but Sam raises a hand. “Do I need to bring up the stitches on my foot from the wine bottle?” 

“No,” Charlie replies, moping openly as she crosses her arms over her chest and sinks back into her chair. “Twice a day for the last two weeks is enough. Besides, we’re not _actually_ going to let them get hypothermia. I’ll put a camera above your front porch, keep an eye on them. You’ll arrive home before anyone loses any fingers or toes, no big.” 

“So let me get this straight,” Sam continues, lacing his fingers together over his desk. “You want to change the locks to my house, so that Cas and Dean get stuck outside on one of the coldest nights of the year with no way to get in. Isn’t this a little… extreme, even for you?”

Charlie nods enthusiastically. “Extreme is all we have left, Sam! I also want you to find a reason to ditch your car at Eileen’s and borrow Dean’s ride. You drop them off in the morning and then get ‘stuck at work,’ in the evening so you can’t drive them home.” Charlie uses actual air quotes when she explains her plan and Sam begins to think she’s been spending too much time studying Cas.

“That’s not going to work,” Sam argues. “The precinct is right down the street from the courthouse. Dean will just walk here and get his car.”

“Not unless he wants to come back and get _you_ when you’re done. In the middle of the night. In the freezing cold. Don’t worry,” Charlie soothes. “Benny will be there in the clutch to offer them a ride home and then drive off before they figure out the doors are locked.”

Sam groans. “You know that if and when this backfires, I’m the one who’s going to end up stuck at work, pretending I need to be here while Dean and Cas get drunk at the bar down the street.” 

With a shrug of one shoulder, Charlie looks back at him seriously. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” she says and Sam sighs. 

“I’m shocked. How close do you think we are to one of them breaking down, anyway?” 

“Oh, _close,_ ” Charlie reassures him. “You should have seen them at the gala. Seriously, Sam. Love is in the air, I can feel it! Also, do you want to order Thai?”

An unsure half-smile turning up the side of his lips, Sam ignores the question about food, shaking his head as he replies, “I sure hope you’re right.” He considers her for a moment. “Alright, here’s the deal. I’ll agree to this _if_ you put cameras on the porch _and_ over the back door so we can see the backyard.” Charlie starts to nod and Sam cuts her off, holding up a finger. “Not done. You also have to promise to sit in your car down the street and monitor the camera feeds on your laptop from there. I’ll give you my house keys, but one of us needs to physically _be_ nearby. That way if they panic or if there’s any real danger, they won’t actually be at risk of getting hurt. Alright?” 

The rate at which Charlie nods and sticks out her hand to shake on that plan should maybe worry Sam. Everything they’ve done so far has been fairly harmless, but this… Something about it makes Sam uneasy, though he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. Still, he shakes the feeling off by convincing himself he’s being dramatic. 

The plan is good; Charlie will be right down the street and Dean will undoubtedly call her just as soon as Sam doesn’t answer his phone. There will be enough locked-out time for Dean and Cas to get snuggly under the stars—and Sam chokes back a little vomit thinking about _that_ —but not nearly enough for anyone’s well-being to be threatened.

What could go wrong?

***

“That bastard,” Dean curses, his breath puffing white into the frigid air as he shifts from foot to foot on their front porch and punches angrily at his phone’s screen. Sam’s suddenly not answering either his calls _or_ his texts, which pisses Dean off to no end. Especially since he just spoke to the guy not an hour prior and Dean knows for a fact that he’s sitting in his cushy, _warm_ office on the seventh floor of the courthouse. Keyword being _warm._

Out of desperation, Dean tries Benny again, though he saw Benny’s phone die with his own two eyes on the ride over here and it hasn’t been nearly long enough for him to get home and plug it in. He scrolls his contacts and tries them all, but Charlie, Eileen, even Bobby— _no one_ seems to be around, because that’s Dean’s fucking luck, isn’t it? 

Growling in irritation and probably because his toes are starting to go numb, Castiel tries the door handle again, as if it might magically pop open this time. “I don’t understand,” he says. “I remember Sam talking about changing the locks after that Luke guy that was obsessed with him made parole, but why would he do it without telling us? Without leaving us new _keys?_ On the _one_ night we don’t have a car? This is very un-Sam-like, if you ask me.” 

With a sigh, Dean shrugs his shoulders and gives up sending messages into the beyond that are just going unanswered. It does seem inordinately strange that absolutely _no one_ is answering his pleas for help, and Dean’s definitely coming back to that later, once he can feel his face enough to make it look appropriately furious. “I dunno what Sam was thinking,” Dean admits. “Hell of a time for his stupid lemon of a car to be in the shop, though. Shoulda just let me do the work on it like I offered to in the first place.” He pauses and looks sideways at Castiel. “Was it me, or did he seem weird about that? When we talked about it at breakfast the other day?” 

Several feet away, Castiel’s moved on to alternating rubbing with blowing into his cupped hands to warm them, the thin gloves he wears at work to maintain his dexterity doing little to shield against the growing cold. 

“Maybe,” he mumbles. “Dean, I think my eyes are frozen.” 

“C’mon,” Dean says resignedly. “We’ll check the windows and if all of them are shut, we’ll see if there’s anything in the shed out back we can use to get the door open.” He checks the windows on the front porch before tugging on Castiel’s coat sleeve to follow him around the side of the house. Together, they check every possible way in for weaknesses, including the tiny window that accesses the basement, but everything is sealed up _tighter than Satan’s asshole_ , a thought Dean relays out loud to Cas, whose lips are starting to look a little blue around the edges. 

“Shit, sunshine,” Dean says, plucking at the collar of Cas’ coat until it stands up and shelters him slightly more sufficiently. “How many times have I told you to invest in some Under Armour? Or at least borrow some of mine.” 

But Castiel doesn’t answer, just moans and turns into the gloved hand Dean’s left lingering by the top of his neck, near his jaw. Without showing any sign of ambivalence or shame, Castiel _nuzzles_ his face into the limited warmth of Dean’s hand, like a fucking cat. 

“Alright,” Dean stammers, “Alright, buddy, we’re fine. We’re fine.” That’s true, for the moment, but it might not be for long. It has to be near zero out here tonight, and there’s a blanket of ice and snow covering the ground that only adds to the freezer-like atmosphere. 

Inwardly, Dean curses Sam for insisting they move out to the more rural outskirts of the city, the residential developments that have absolutely nothing useful in walkable distance, not even a gas station or a 7-11. He also curses himself for being too damn antisocial and Cas for having zero people skills, or maybe they’d have some neighbors whose living room they could hang out in until Sam came home. Dean supposes that if it comes to that, a little awkwardness would be better than letting him and Cas turn into human popsicles. 

Standing in their backyard with snow crunching under his feet, Dean glances around and notes that at the very least, his immediate neighbors’ houses appear dark. It _is_ a little late to be going around knocking on doors, emergency or no. In this area, they’re as liable to be chased away with a gunshot as welcomed inside. _Damn_. 

His eyes land on the Jacuzzi but it’s lifeless, the breaker to the power outlet that it uses flipped to _off_ inside the house so that it can’t ghost electricity and jack up their power bill. _Great fucking decision there._ With no other options in sight, Dean lets his hand slip from Cas’ face and once again tugs on his jacket, this time in the direction of the little garden shed nestled at the back of their small, fenced-in property. 

The combo lock on the outside of the door sticks from the cold, but Dean manages to get it open, small fucking miracles. He reaches up to pull the chain for the bare bulb that hangs overhead and whoops with glee at what he sees. “Hell yes,” he cheers. “Winchester: one, hypothermia: zero.” 

Triumphantly, he turns around to face Cas with the space heater from their old downtown apartment swinging wildly from one hand. The look of relief on Cas’ face as his teeth start to chatter too violently for a coherent reply is worrying, but at least they have a plan now. Dean plugs the thing into the wall and prays that it still works, the building fear in his chest dissipating as soon as he sees the familiar red light start flashing on top. 

“I owe you one,” he says, pointing finger guns skyward and making a clicking sound with his tongue. 

Castiel manages to get the door closed with his semi-frozen hands, grunting in irritation as he sidles forward and drops to his knees in front of the heater. “Faster,” he mumbles, presumably to the heater, since Dean is just crouching there. Which reminds him… 

“Hold tight,” he tells Castiel. “Somewhere back here, there should be…” he trails off, rummaging through the piles of junk heaped around the back half of the small shed. After a few moments of rustling noises, Dean finds what he’s looking for. “Aha!” He declares, yanking a nylon duffel out from under a small heap of what he’s pretty sure are garbage bags full of old clothes. He pauses for a moment, and then grabs some of those too. “Move,” he tells Castiel, kicking him in the shin. Castiel grumbles but struggles stiffly to his feet and shuffles to the other side of the heater to give Dean space.

There’s nothing delicate about their situation, so Dean doesn’t mess around. He rips open the two trash bags he’s holding, dumping the musty-smelling clothing onto the concrete floor as a buffer from the cold. The fabric is still freezing, but at least it’ll prevent the ground from sapping heat away from their bodies. When he’s done with that, Dean opens the oversized duffel and pulls out a stack of blankets, watching as Cas’ pale face lights up. 

“These are _old,_ ” Dean remarks. “Used to live in the trunk of the Impala, back when Dad was still dragging us around the country. “Spent who knows how many nights wrapped up in these with Sam in the backseat, they’ll do us just fine.” 

He spreads one out over the pile of clothing and tucks the excess up against the wall of the shed so they have something to lean on. Castiel pushes the heater closer to the makeshift nest with his shoe before plopping down next to Dean, forgoing even the pretense of maintaining personal space in this cold. As Dean arranges the blankets around them so they can pull them up, Castiel hesitates.

“Should we… we should probably take our jackets off, and perhaps our outer layers, yes? The space heater is better than nothing, but it’s not going to do much more than take the freezing edge off the air. Body heat is still going to be our most efficient way to keep warm.” 

Looking between the space heater and Castiel while noting how the room hasn’t so much as warmed one degree (in his opinion, though it’s nice to be out of the wind), Dean nods. “You’re probably right.” For so many reasons, this is a bad idea, but it’s not like they have many options at this point. Once they get snuggled up together, Dean’s going to resume calling Sam nonstop until he either picks up or Dean’s phone dies, whichever comes first. 

Both of them move as quickly as possible, ripping off outer layers until they’re likewise down to t-shirts, then huddling together while wrapping the blankets around them and their still-warm coats as an insulating underlayer beneath that. When it’s all said and done, Dean is basically in Castiel’s lap, their arms are around each other’s torsos, and the blankets are folded up and nearly over their heads in an attempt to keep the heat in, like a burrito. 

That leaves their faces only inches apart, and maybe that would be awkward, but Castiel just doesn’t seem to register anything but the immediate need for warmth. Instead of commenting on their proximity, he shoves his face and his ice-cold nose _right_ into the crook of Dean’s neck, sighing happily with whatever he finds there. 

“Better?” Dean can’t help but ask softly, and a smile creeps across his face when Castiel nods but doesn’t move. 

Fishing in the clothing pile for his phone, Dean puts Part Two of his plan into motion, dialing Sam’s cell (and office) furiously and repeatedly with absolutely zero response. Finally, he gets fed up. “You know, fuck this,” he growls, scrolling his contact list for the ultimate last resort.

“ _This is the District Attorney’s answering service, how may I help you?”_

“Yea, this is Detective Dean Winchester. I need the D.A. to call me back on my personal cell phone immediately, it’s an emergency.”

_“Of course, Detective Winchester, I’ll page him immediately. I’ll just need the case number or a reference name for the issue you’re calling about."_

“You can just tell him it’s a personal matter that’s urgent,” Dean replies with an eye roll. There’s exactly a zero percent chance the chick on the other end doesn’t know exactly who Dean is, and an equally non-existent chance Sam won’t be mocked into eternity over his big brother calling the D.A.’s answering service to get ahold of him for something _personal_. 

_Oh well,_ Dean thinks. Should’ve kept his damn phone on. Serves Sam right, anyway, for not wanting to give Dean his direct pager number, citing that he can’t play favorites with detectives. Really, there are so many factors at play here that are Sam’s fault, it’s hard to even know where to start. Elected official or not, he’s still Dean’s little brother, and Dean is not above embarrassing him to get his attention when necessary. 

And this? Cas half-frozen and shivering in his lap while they hide from the cold in a _shed?_ This is _beyond_ necessary. 

“Alright, Detective,” the answering service replies, a note of obvious amusement in her voice. “I’ve passed the message on, you should be hearing from him momentarily.” In the background, Dean’s pretty sure he hears a muffled swear and a low-key commotion right as he’s hanging up. 

It only takes thirty seconds or so for his phone to ring with Sam’s name splashed across the screen, but just as it does, the door to the shed bursts open, a gust of frigid wind preceding a red-haired, frantic tornado in a faux-fur-lined parka. Snow gusts up around her feet and blows into Dean and Cas’ makeshift shelter, and Dean glares.

“Keys!” Charlie blurts out, holding a ring of them up and shaking for emphasis. Castiel finally lifts his head from Dean’s neck just far enough to glower at her over the edge of the blankets, and now that they’re saved, Dean hits the _ignore_ button on his phone. _Sam can see how he likes it._

“Get out, Charlie,” Dean says pointedly. “We need to get dressed. Go open up the house.”

“Right,” Charlie says decisively, and then pauses in her turn to leave. “You’re not…” She points a finger in their direction and wiggles it, her eyebrows doing the same thing on her face. “You know, naked under there?” 

“Out, Charlie!” Castiel snaps, and Charlie jumps, making a squeaking sound as she slams the door shut behind her. Castiel sighs and pulls back far enough to look up at Dean wearily. “Do you ever get the feeling that those two—Charlie and Sam—are up to something? That we are just… missing part of the conversation?” 

“All the damn time,” Dean replies with a shake of his head. “We’ll worry about it later. Let’s go get warm for real.” They shuck the blankets and re-dress in record time, Castiel going back to grab the space heater when Dean opens the door again and they’re treated with another blast of icy air to the face. 

“I may sleep snuggled up to it,” he explains and Dean forces himself to resist making a remark about how _he_ could be that space heater in Cas’ bed, if Cas would let him. He’s already going to be fighting off inappropriate physical reactions when he thinks back on being curled against Cas’ chest the way he was, no need to torture himself further. 

Charlie meets them halfway across the yard, a guilty look plastered across her face. “Door’s open and I turned up the heat inside,” she says and Dean nods as they trudge past her. “Hey,” she calls after them, and both Dean and Cas turn reluctantly to find Charlie looking and pointing up at the sky. “Check it out, meteor shower.”

Dean tips his face up, and sure enough, what looks like hundreds of stars are flying across the inky black sky. It’s beautiful, and if he were a lot less frozen and in a much better mood, he’d love to hang out and watch the display. As it is, all Dean wants is a glass of whiskey and to sink down into the couch with Cas to watch a movie like they originally planned. 

“Make a wish,” Castiel says softly, and despite his frustration, Dean catches his eye and everything grinds to a halt around them. For _one_ endless minute, it’s all blue and laugh lines and _Cas_ and Dean doesn’t have to think twice about what his wish might be for. He’s been making the same one for years. 

When Castiel shivers and the moment breaks, Dean looks around to say goodnight to Charlie, but she’s already gone. _To hell with it,_ Dean thinks. He takes Castiel’s hand to lead him inside and forgives himself for being selfish enough to need it. As the door closes behind them, Dean casts another glance at the meteor shower still lighting up the night sky.

 _I wish,_ he thinks.

***


	9. My Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for a brief assault in this chapter resulting in a serious injury to Castiel that Dean has to act on quickly to save his life.

The thing about Best Laid Plans is that they always _seem_ reasonable at the time. Well thought out or noble, even. It’s not as if Sam could have seen this coming, or Charlie or Benny, for that matter. If any of them had, of course they would each have stepped in and put a stop to the whole thing right from the jump. Sam truly believes that, even now. 

That’s not an excuse, it never is, but the fact remains, all _three_ of them are equally responsible for this. Though for his part, Sam finds himself shouldering a lot of the blame, wishing he’d never let Charlie take the reigns on this thing at all. 

Somehow, he’d let himself be carried away, swayed and cajoled by Charlie until he, too, was caught up in the idea that it was necessary at this point to take things to the next level, to escalate their plan in a wholly dramatic way. Cute little vignettes weren’t working, so it hadn’t seemed unreasonable to arrange a situation that would push both Dean and Cas to their limits, perhaps even scare them into realizing that life is _short_ and time isn’t an infinite resource. 

In retrospect, that all seems so stupid, so short-sighted and selfish. And now, with not a lick of medical training to his name, all Sam can do is stand in the middle of the alley, clutching his phone to his ear in horror as the 911 operator says, _“Sir? Are you still there?”_

“Y-yes,” Sam stammers, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of Dean screaming as he drops to his knees next to Cas, pressing fingers to his neck and hovering his cheek over Cas’ mouth, checking for breathing. “I need an ambulance in the alleyway between Seventh and Forrester. Two streets over from the main police precinct,” Sam continues, as evenly as possible, since Castiel’s life depends on it. “I think—I think my friend might be dead.” 

***

_Earlier_

“You paid last time,” Castiel argues as Dean fishes in his wallet for a few bills and throws them down on the table, ignoring him completely. 

“Yea, Dean, you paid last time,” Charlie mocks them from across the table. Dean glares his best face-incinerating stare but Charlie just sighs wistfully and bats her eyelashes at them. “Where can I get a “platonic” best friend that pays for my meals and carries my stuff?” 

“You make me sound like a golf caddy,” Dean complains. “And what’s with the air quotes? Me and Cas _are_ platonic, doofus.” 

“I think I’m your caddy,” Sam mutters to Charlie under his breath.

“You do buy me a lot of Thai,” she admits. 

“No one buys me stuff,” Benny complains from where he’s parked at the narrow end of the table between the brothers. 

“That’s a lie,” Dean challenges. “I bought you a coffee yesterday morning. _And_ hand-delivered it.”

“That’s because Cas had a craving for that new peppermint mocha frozen business Starbucks has on special and you were goin’ anyway,” Benny reminds him. Caught, Dean flushes, ducking his head and pretending to mop up burger juice with a burned fry-end so that no one notices his shame.

“Still counts,” he mutters. “So quit your bitchin’.” 

There’s a beat and then Benny caves. “I suppose so, Chief. Anyway, we best be gettin’ back, it’s almost one. I have an interview scheduled for half-past.” There’s a chorus of similar sentiments from Charlie and Sam which Dean finds odd, since Charlie works from home and “working” is a pretty loose term for what she does on the daily. Dean can’t remember the last time he’s seen her actually _schedule_ something work related, but he’s too full of red meat and satisfied to be any kind of interested in arguing about it. Before he can say anything anyway, chairs are scraping and jackets are being donned and the moment’s passed. 

As the group moves towards the front of the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, the chef sticks his head through the cut-out that looks through to the kitchen and waves them off. “Thanks again, buddy,” Dean calls as they pass. 

He and Cas are basically fixtures at the joint, eating here at least once a week for years now. The place looks like a total dump from the outside, the entrance tucked unobtrusively into the brick wall of an alleyway two streets over from the precinct. It’s cheap, it’s out of the way, and they have the best damn burgers Dean’s ever wrapped his mouth around excluding his own. Sure, the neighborhood isn’t the greatest, and Dean wouldn’t be keen on roaming the alleyways after dark even _with_ his weapons belt around his waist, but in the middle of the afternoon, that all seems pretty damn distant.

As a detective, Dean is usually pretty on his guard, senses heightened and all that, especially when he’s on duty. Today, for whatever reason, he’s finding it hard to slip back into that mode. _Everyone has days like that,_ he reasons. And why shouldn’t he be relaxed? It’s bright and sunny outside, he’s out to lunch with his brother and his best friends, his belly is full of good food and nearly everything is right with the world. 

Plus, Cas is by his side, a hand on Dean’s arm as he guides them both smoothly out the door, and so sue Dean if he just wants to friggin’ _bask_ for a minute. He and Cas are just starting out down the alleyway, nearly arm-in-arm and grinning stupidly at each other for no reason at all when it happens.

The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against the nape of Dean’s neck stops him cold in his tracks, his reflexive reach for his own weapon halted by his attacker’s words. “Hands where I can see them, all of you. I’ve got a gun on both of these two, so don’t try anything funny or I’ll shoot.” The voice is nasally but masculine, and in the back of Dean’s mind, he thinks he may have heard it before. Maybe in a lineup or similar? 

“ _Hey,”_ the man growls. “I _said,_ hands where I can see them.” 

The pressure leaves Dean’s neck for a brief second, the soft clicking that follows making Dean think that whoever is holding the weapon is waving it in the direction of Charlie, Benny, and Sam. Must be, since out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see them all relent and put their hands sky-high. “You three, hands on your heads, now,” the man demands, and Dean can only watch as they comply, his brief hope that Benny would get the jump on this dude fading quickly. He considers trying to blindly disarm the guy himself, but without knowing the kind of person he’s up against and the fact that he supposedly has a gun trained on Cas, it doesn’t seem like the smartest idea.

The man’s attention is back on them anyway, and he speaks. “I know you’re both carrying, shoulder holsters at least. One at a time, you’re gonna take out your pieces and drop them on the ground.” Cas’ eyes are locked on Dean’s and it’s been a _long_ time since he’s seen him frightened, but there it is, plain as day. Considering the nightmares Cas has been having lately, Dean can understand why. Carefully, they comply with the order and Dean hears the swooshing scrape of metal on concrete as their attacker kicks their sidearms as far as he can down the alley.

From somewhere off to their left, Dean hears Sam hiss angrily, “We never talked about this! This is _way_ too far, I’m _done,_ ” but it’s quickly followed by the cocking of a gun and Sam’s kowtowed silence. That must have been the one trained on Cas, because Dean can still feel a barrel on his own neck. So there are two, that’s not great news. 

As if things aren’t bad enough, Charlie actually _replies_ to Sam, though what she says doesn’t make any sense to Dean. “That’s not—” Her voice is urgent, and Dean strains to look around and see what she’s talking about, but he can’t move that far. “Sam, I didn’t _do this,_ it’s not—” 

“Did I not say _enough?_ ” The man threatens and Dean hears the hammer of the other gun, the one against his neck, cock too. _Shit._ The barrel leaves his skin as their attacker starts rummaging in Dean’s pockets, extracting first Dean’s wallet and then doing the same to Cas. The pleading look in Cas’ eyes is clear, _Just let him take what he wants._ Dean replies with the barest of nods to show that he understands. Even still, he keeps his senses attuned to what the guy is doing, waiting for him to make a mistake, for an opening that won’t put Cas at risk, for _anything_ he can use to get the upper hand. 

It comes when their attacker rounds on Cas and walks into Dean’s line of sight for the first time. If he’d stayed behind him, Dean likely never would have taken the risk, but seeing the dude in person has him doing a double-take. The guy is thin, _wiry_ even, and guns aside, Dean knows he could take him easily in a fight. He’s got greying facial hair and limp, thin and greasy strands on top. He _looks_ like a damn junkie, all red-eyed and jittery with teeth marks in his lips and a pale, sweaty complexion. Alright, _this_ Dean can work with. Junkies aren’t slick con artists, they’re desperate messes. 

But the man’s state is not the only thing Dean clocks right away, and he can tell by the way Cas’ gaze shifts that he notices it too. The guns he’s holding aren’t _real._ They’re Colt Defenders, they say so in silver lettering, right on the side of the barrel. Benny probably couldn’t see from where he’s standing, but Dean couldn’t miss it. Not that the fact that they’re dealing with air pistols eliminates the threat entirely; high-velocity BB guns can definitely kill someone, especially at short range. But they’re a hell of a lot safer to go up against than a real gun. 

Silently, Dean sends up a thanks to Bobby for forcing them all to attend that “Recognizing “Toy” Guns In The Field,” class last month, because despite the lettering, this thing _does_ look real. No way Dean would have pegged it without that training. 

Risk leveraged, Dean exchanges a glance with Cas and—knowing he’s seen the same thing—they silently count off. _One, two, three,_ and they both move at the same time. They’re a flawless team, Dean taking the junkie’s left arm, Cas the right, and while both of the guns fire, they do so harmlessly into the floor of the alleyway and only once before the seasoned detectives manage to disarm him. 

Caught off guard, the man howls and flails, obviously furious to have his plan foiled. Both guns go clattering to the ground and Dean dives for them, wanting to send them skidding equally as far away as his own service weapon from the unstable situation. 

It all happens in a matter of seconds, from Dean and Cas’ attack to the moment when Dean turns around to see Cas go down. Somewhere in between, Benny’s charging forward to help, his own gun drawn, but he’s too late. Cas and the junkie are fighting hand to hand, and while the guy is no match for Cas’ strength and skill, he is _furious,_ and the brutal combination of anger and desperation is one of the most dangerous to be up against. In the end, it’s _one_ lucky move that takes Cas down; a driven kick of the man’s ratty but steel-toed boots straight to the middle of Cas’ chest. 

Dean watches it happen almost in slow motion, and as Cas staggers and falls, the guy takes off running. Without any sign of hesitation, Benny sprints after him, screaming for the guy to stop and still relentlessly aiming his gun. There’s no thought about that, though, not for Dean. He’s too busy watching Cas gasp, choke, and the light go out of his eyes, all before his body even hits the ground. There’s screaming, and it takes Dean a minute to realize that it’s his own.

Somewhere in the background he can hear Sam calling 911, but Dean can’t think about that right now, has to _focus. Focus. FOCUS._ Frantically, he racks his brain for the paltry first responder training he had years ago. Somewhere in there, he _knows_ there’s something relevant about getting hit in the chest… something about sports injuries, kids, baseball, maybe? Kids getting hit in the chests with baseballs! Kids going into cardiac arrest because it strikes them at exactly the wrong moment during a heartbeat. _But what to do?_

 _Two wrongs don’t make a right, except in this case._ Dean’s pretty sure that was the saying, the _mnemonic_ , thinks about it as he presses fingers to Cas’ neck and hovers his cheek over Cas’ mouth; _no pulse, no breathing. Two wrongs don’t make a right, because… because you hit them again!_

His brain miraculously kicking back online, Dean _remembers. Cardiac thump,_ he’s pretty sure it’s called. If there’s no AED, you can punch the person in the chest, right above the heart and sometimes it’s enough to kickstart it back into gear. Dean holds his breath and lets his fist come down in the middle of Cas’ sternum, diving straight into chest compressions and then rescue breathing the way he was taught immediately after his fists hits bone. 

The world tilts on its axis when Cas coughs into Dean’s mouth, sealed the way it is over his own, puffing air into his lungs. _He can cough, he’s alive._ Sirens wail in the distance, and Dean fucking _prays_ they’re almost here, because he’s exhausted the entirety of his medical training in one fell swoop. Fortunately, Cas is still coughing and his eyes are blinking open and Dean sits back on his heels, rubs hands over his face and holds them there for a long moment. When he finally drops them down, Sam and Charlie are turning Cas onto his side and Dean pulls off his jacket to slide it under Cas’ head like a blanket. 

“It’s okay, buddy,” he soothes, rubbing Cas’ arm. “It’s all okay now, you’re alright.” He’s honestly not sure who he’s trying to convince more, himself or Cas. Hell, he’s not even sure Cas can _hear_ him. 

The ambulance stops at the end of the alley and Sam waves them down. In front of him, Cas is facing away from Dean now but his hand gropes, seeking out Dean’s almost frantically. When Dean holds his out, Cas grabs it, pulling it fiercely into his chest, and Dean lets him. His breathing is ragged and sharp where Dean can feel his lungs expanding against his forearm and Dean prays he didn’t do any lasting damage to his ribs or heart. 

When the paramedics roll their stretcher over, Dean word-vomits the whole story back to them and they clap him on the shoulder, telling him he did a fantastic job, _exactly what you needed to do._ The reassurance lets Dean breathe a sigh of relief, at least he didn’t make things worse.

As Cas is being loaded onto the gurney, he refuses to let go of Dean’s hand, though he seems to be having some trouble speaking. The medics encourage him to stay quiet, putting an oxygen mask over his face to help ease his breathing. They recognize both Dean and Cas from the job, tell Dean he’s welcome to ride in the back with one of the medics and Cas, which he readily accepts. 

As he’s stepping into the box alongside Cas’ stretcher, Dean catches sight of Benny perp-walking the goon who attacked them back down the alleyway in cuffs, a gun to the back of his head. He’s torn. He should help Benny, make sure this arrest is clean. The guy could spaz out again at any second. But just as he’s about to release Cas’ hand, Bobby’s Chief’s vehicle comes flying down the alley too, screeching to a stop just feet shy of where the perp is now on his knees. 

Bobby steps out, catches Dean’s eye and waves him off, which fills Dean with gratitude and relief like no other. Sam appears at the open back doors and says he and Charlie will meet them at the hospital and then they’re off, a blur of lights and sirens that Dean feels a little nauseous to be on the other side of. He’d much rather be the guy closing the doors from the outside, tapping the back of the truck in that “ _OK to head out”_ signal everyone seems to do, despite the fact that the medics can talk to each other through the window in the box that looks through to the front seat. 

But he’s not, he’s here holding the hand of his best friend, the man he’s madly in love with and too chicken to admit it, who was _fucking dead_ less than fifteen minutes ago. Dead, and Dean brought him back to life in the most perverted form of a first kiss that’s ever existed. The thought is so ridiculous that Dean barks a hysterical little laugh, earning himself an eyebrow raise from the medic as he takes Castiel’s blood pressure and a squint from Cas himself. 

Once at the hospital, despite the fact that he’s stable now, Cas gets swept away to a trauma room for evaluation and Dean’s made to wait outside. Somewhat numbly, he gives the registration clerk all of Castiel’s personal details and only when she asks for Cas’ insurance card does Dean realize they still don’t have their wallets. Sam shows up shortly after and his brain is clearly working better than Dean’s because he has their wallets and makes sure the registration clerk gets Cas’ card. 

Charlie isn’t nearly as put together. All Dean has to do is lay eyes on her and she bursts into tears, like this whole thing is her fault. Subsequently, Dean spends the next fifteen minutes of his being excluded from Cas’ room comforting Charlie and letting her cry into his shoulder until Sam returns and rips her away, looking for some bizarre reason both irritated and ashamed at the same time. 

That does seem a little strange, but Dean doesn’t have the mental capacity to parse out who gets the weird behavior award right at the moment, because Cas’ curtain is finally open and they’re all allowed in. Dean looks on uncertainly at first as he notes the oxygen mask swapped out for prongs in Cas’ nose, as well as the addition of a heart monitor, but the fact that everyone’s leaving must mean he’s doing alright. 

There’s an awkward moment where no one quite seems to know what to do or say and Cas only has eyes for Dean. But soon enough, Cas is trying to lean forward, holding out a hand in silent request. Dean goes immediately, cupping the offered hand in both of his own as he drags a chair to Cas’ bedside using his foot and sits down. 

Finally, _finally,_ Dean breathes out, unaware that he was even as tense as he was until the muscles in his shoulders start to relax. For his part, Cas just smiles and gives the “OK” sign with his left hand. 

“Can’t you talk?” Dean asks, alarmed, but Castiel nods right away, wincing a little, his hand flying to his chest. 

“Hurts,” he whispers and Dean nods, understanding. “Sore.” 

“Shut up,” he demands gruffly. “Don’t make it worse.” 

From where they’re both still hovering in the open space meant for the sliding glass doors to the room, Charlie clears her throat. When Dean looks over, he finds her tucked into Sam’s side, looking positively pitiful. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think _she_ was the one who recently had a gun to her head, who watched the love of her life die in front of her, and then brought him back to life with her own hands. Dean makes a face. “What, Charlie?”

“Actually,” Sam interjects. “It’s both of us. We, uh…” Sam and Charlie exchange a glance. “We need to tell you guys something.”

Charlie nods woefully. “It’s time we come clean.”

***


	10. Meddling Sidekicks

The silence in the ER room is tense, both Charlie and Sam fiddling nervously with their fingers and the edges of their coats as they wait for either Dean or Castiel to say something. The longer the silence stretches on, the more awkward things get, the more Charlie looks worried that Dean might actually try and kick her ass. For his part, Dean knows his mouth is hanging open, tries to close it several times only to end up gaping again because _what the actual fuck?_

“So you…” He manages to get that much out and then loses his ability to form words all over again as his brain short circuits trying to process the implications of all of this. Part of him wants— _needs—_ to look over at Cas and gauge where he’s at, but a much bigger part reminds him that he should be completely terrified at what he might see when he does. 

The thing is though, Dean’s not an idiot, and it’s getting increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that Cas hasn’t recoiled in horror from their idiot friends’ big reveal. In fact, the grip he has on Dean’s hand has only tightened. Making a decision, Dean swallows hard and drags his eyes away from Charlie’s pleading face to rest them on Cas’. 

And that’s all it takes. One look and Dean _knows,_ feels in his soul, that Charlie and Sam are not wrong. It’s not difficult to see that Cas comes to the same realization at the same time, though neither of them actually _says_ anything at all. Of course, Charlie picks that moment to snap, her anxiety-driven chatter bursting from her tiny body in a stream of emotion and apologetic worry. 

“But just in case it wasn’t clear, _that_ guy wasn’t _our guy,_ not this time. We never would have put you in any real danger, Dean, you have to believe me. Alastair, the guy who attacked you, he jumped the guy I hired first while he was waiting outside the restaurant and—” 

“Charlie,” Sam interrupts quietly, while Dean doesn’t so much as bother to rip his eyes away from Cas’ beaming face. “Shut up.”

“But,” Charlie protests. “I just don’t want them to misinterpret the whole “we hired a dude to pretend to attack Cas so Dean could save him,” thing—” 

“ _Charlie,_ ” Sam repeats, exasperated, and Dean _might_ smile if he wasn’t still incredibly pissed off at the both of them. But he is, so instead he just ignores them completely and focuses on Cas. “Look,” Sam encourages. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see him elbowing Charlie and nodding in Dean and Cas’ direction. " _Really_ look.” 

Of course, for _once_ Dean doesn’t need the Cliff Notes version to understand what Sam’s pointing at since he’s right in the middle of it, yanked unceremoniously from his pit of denial by the two meddling sidekicks. Three, if Dean’s suspicions are correct and Benny’s in on it too, his temporary reprieve from Dean’s wrath only as brief as the time it takes for him to show up here and ask for forgiveness. And anyway, Dean’s self-aware enough to know that if his face looks anything remotely similar to Cas’ (and he’s fairly sure his red-rimmed eyes are worse), the scene the two of them are setting is all but painfully obvious. 

“Oh,” Charlie says, her eyes widening as she takes the two of them in and finally _gets it,_ presumably realizing that her worry over Cas and Dean misunderstanding what went down is wholly one-sided and without gravity. Not to mention, pretty much the last thing on the list of stuff Dean even remotely cares to deal with at the moment. When Cas is better, all bets are off, but for now, Dean has exactly zero brain cells to spare for Charlie’s crap.

Fortunately, what’s _not_ one-sided are his feelings for Castiel, and the relief that floods Dean’s body at that dawning awareness is so much that it almost overshadows just what exactly that _means._ Before he can say anything else, though, Sam clears his throat and jams a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the emergency room’s exit. 

“We’re gonna, uh, leave you guys alone,” he tells them. “I know we all definitely need to talk some more later and we will, but I think it’s time Charlie and I butt out for a while. I’m gonna head home, set up some things so it’s easier for you both when you bring Cas home. When I’ve finished, I’m going to go stay with Eileen for a few days. Unless something happens and you need me here or at home, naturally,” he amends quickly. 

Vaguely, Dean considers torturing Sam by asking him to stick around the house just in case, but in the end, he lets his brother off the hook, in no small part because it’ll mean getting to delay that conversation as a whole. From where he’s sitting, Dean can’t say he’s one hundred percent sure they’re all going to come out the other side of it still friends. “Alright,” Dean replies, not taking his eyes off of Cas. “But we ain’t done with this.” 

“I know,” Sam says quietly. “Cas, I’m really glad you’re okay, man.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Castiel’s voice is still rough but he doesn’t look away either, not for one second, and Dean’s body thrills. As Sam and Charlie shuffle out of sight, Dean overhears a familiar redheaded squee of excitement (followed by a loud _“Shhhhhh!!”_ from Sam), undoubtedly as Charlie assumes she’s farther away from their room than she is. It breaks the charged atmosphere between him and Cas as Dean huffs a frustrated laugh and ducks his head. 

“Idiots,” he mutters under his breath. 

“ _But that kiss was SO Sleeping Beauty!”_ Charlie’s voice still drifts from down the hall and that one does Cas in. He laughs even though it clearly hurts, clutching his chest even as his eyes crinkle, while Dean looks on incredulously. 

“What is _wrong_ with that girl?” He wonders out loud and Castiel just shakes his head. 

“I know. But if I don’t laugh…” He coughs a little, bringing his and Dean’s clasped hands to his chest along with his free one as he grimaces through a few deep breaths.

“I get it,” Dean says, swallowing hard as he squeezes Castiel’s hand back. “Believe me.” 

There’s silence again and this part feels awkward, the space between them absolutely nothing and boundless at the same time. Their secret is out and shattered, but neither of them have crossed that final line in the sand just yet. And Christ, Dean _wants_ to lean in, wants to touch Cas, to put hands on his chest and soothe him, to kiss the laugh lines next to his eyes in pure relief that he’s still alive to make them. 

“It wasn’t a kiss,” Castiel says, startling Dean out of the dreamy state where he’s been cataloging all of the contours and lines of Cas’ face. Now that he has permission to stare openly (he thinks), Dean refuses to waste a second where he could be memorizing every single minuscule detail of Cas’ features. 

“Huh?” he asks dazedly as Castiel finally lets go of his hand, tucking both of his own underneath his butt to try and push himself more vertical. The sliding bedsheets and uncomfortably tilted gurney don’t help, and Cas struggles. It’s impossible for him to hide the wince he makes as he moves, and Dean automatically shoves aside whatever awkwardness has been hanging between them to thread an arm under Cas’ shoulder and try to help him up. The IV tubing running across the bed from Cas’ hand gets pinched in the process, making the pump start beeping obnoxiously, about the same time Castiel himself gasps in pain and folds into Dean’s chest, breathing heavily and stilted at the same time. 

A nurse comes striding in just in time to see Cas draped dramatically over Dean’s arm like he’s tilting him back to kiss and she raises her eyebrow, clearly both concerned and amused. Dean hedges. “Uh, this isn’t… I was just trying to help him sit up.” 

“Got it.” The nurse, _Mandy,_ according to her ID badge replies, suppressing a smile as she presses a few buttons that silence the alarm on Cas’ IV pump. “You know there are better ways to do that, right?” She rounds the bed and grabs the edge of the sheet on her side with two hands, one next to Cas’ shoulder and one by his hip, motioning for Dean to do the same. With some reluctance, Dean lets Castiel slide back against the gurney and follows the nurse’s lead. 

On the count of three, they hoist him up and Cas sighs with relief once he’s better situated. “Your doctor ordered something for the pain,” Mandy tells Castiel. “Rate it on a scale from one to ten for me and I’ll grab it for you.” 

As Dean sits back down in his chair, Cas once again fishes for his hand, finding it and lacing their fingers together immediately. He hardly looks at Mandy, gazing up at Dean like he thinks he hung the moon, and Dean feels a blush creeping up his neck. 

“What pain?” Castiel replies softly with a small smile, and Dean has to duck his head for fear his whole face might combust. 

Mandy isn’t impressed, rolling her eyes and drumming her fingertips on the guardrail she raised on the side of the bed Dean isn’t half-laying on. “So like a seven,” she says decisively, waving Castiel off when he tries to protest. “You and those bruised ribs will thank me later, Prince Charming,” she says as she sweeps out of the room. 

When Castiel looks back at him in open exasperation, Dean just shrugs and raises his eyebrows like, _what are you going to do?_ “Better listen to her,” he says, reaching out and allowing the backs of his fingers to graze Cas’ cheek. He goes to pull back, to put some distance between them, just in case Cas is too worn out to really get into all that right at this particular moment in time. They need to _talk,_ but in an emergency room while Cas is still waiting on scans and test results to determine if he’s seriously injured isn’t exactly the ideal place for it.

Not that easily dissuaded, Castiel catches Dean’s hand and holds it and now there’s no possible way to mistake this for what it is. Not that he’s been under any persistent delusions since Charlie and Sam dropped their bomb, but still. Both of Dean’s hands in both of Castiel’s, the two of them leaning in as close as they can, at least considering the whole hospital bed situation. 

“How long?” That this is the question Castiel chooses to ask should probably not surprise Dean as much as it does, though Castiel himself sounds confident and sure. It comforts Dean to know that he doesn’t have to be the first to put a toe across the line, that Castiel’s not going to make him dance and sweat. 

It occurs to him almost peripherally that this might actually be _easy,_ that it could have been _easy_ all along. Castiel knows him better than anyone else on the planet and Dean suddenly can’t figure out why he made things so hard for both of them. Maybe that’s the most difficult realization of all. Regardless, enough is enough, and it’s time to drop the act.

“Since day one,” he admits and Cas’ eyes widen. That makes Dean panic a little, if he’s being honest, but he pushes forward because it’s now or never, and if he stops _now,_ then it’s _going_ to be never. “Maybe I didn’t know it was love back then, but you were always somethin’ special. Pinged my radar. I never in my life wanted to just hang out or talk to someone the way I did with you. You turned my whole world upside down, Cas, shook me to my core, but I just… didn’t think you were interested. I flirted my _ass_ off the first couple of years we were friends and you never gave me any kind of sign...” He drifts off a little helplessly.

“Dean,” Castiel says incredulously. “You flirted with _everyone_ in college. You hit on the sixty-year-old cafeteria lady because in exchange, she gave you extra onions on your burger. How the hell was I supposed to know that I meant more to you than extra onions?!” 

Blinking, Dean just stares at Cas’ gorgeous, confused face. The thought had truly never crossed his mind that Castiel didn’t actually understand that Dean was interested, that he was flirting with intent. “I didn’t know,” he says dumbly, unable to come up with anything smarter. There is nothing. There’s no excuse. Still, Dean has to be sure. “So, you… even back then?” He bites his lip as he waits for Cas’ response, raising an eyebrow when Castiel huffs a laugh and shakes his head. He opens his mouth to say something and then stops, seemingly thinking better of it.

“ _Yes,_ ” he says finally. “I’m afraid to make a joke right now because I don’t want what’s apparently been happening for the last eleven years to accidentally recur, just when we’re on the brink of—” He pauses, drawing breath sharply in a way that makes his fingers fly to his chest again. Cas’ eyes narrow and he tilts his head to the side. “Dean,” he says slowly, deliberately. “We _are_ on the brink of—” 

“I love you,” Dean blurts out. “I should’ve said it sooner. Should have said it a hundred thousand times by now. Every damn morning when I had to drag your ass out of bed, every night before we went to sleep. After you woke up from a nightmare, or right before we got out of the car at work. On the couch for movie night and at the bar on Fridays. In front of all of our friends and in our house where no one else can see. When bad shit happens and all the good shit, too, hopefully a lot more of the second from here on out. Cas, I don’t just love you. I’m _in_ love with you. Please, _please_ fucking tell me you’re in love with me too.” The whole thing feels like one big, run-on sentence to Dean, for the way he rambles and forces it all out before his brain can make him swallow it again, but one look at Cas’ face and it’s all worth it. 

“God, yes,” Castiel replies, reaching out and grabbing Dean’s face, his smooth palms scratching against Dean’s stubble as Cas pulls him forward. “Dean,” he says. “Kiss me for real.” In his mind, Dean’s imagined this moment a thousand times. The plush feel of Cas’ lips, the heat of his mouth, the way he clings and holds onto Dean like he already can’t get enough and they’ve _just_ started. As Cas’ mouth brushes light against his own, all thousand-plus made up Castiels in Dean’s head flash before his eyes, all of the kisses he wanted but never took, dreamed about but never dared act on, everything they’ve lost and missed out on, _no more_ because it’s all here for the taking.

So Dean does. He takes and Cas gives and Dean does his best to return it all in kind because he can’t stand even the _idea_ of Cas not knowing, not for one more second, how much Dean loves and wants him. It’s no surprise that Cas feels perfect in his arms, like he’s meant to be there, the way Dean always somehow knew that he would. But there are no _ifs_ anymore, just Cas’ lips against his own and the mumbled sweet things he can’t seem to stop pushing into Dean’s mouth. 

Of course, reality is a bitch, and this time it comes in the form of Castiel’s heart monitor racing and a bunch of medical staff bursting through the partially drawn curtain like they expect him to be in crisis. The two of them break away from each other hastily, Castiel grimacing as the action hurts his chest. “Oops,” he mutters, glancing up at the nurse guiltily as he rubs a closed fist over his sternum. 

“Let me guess,” Nurse Mandy says with a smirk. “You were just trying to help him sit him up in bed again.” 

“Hell with that, I was trying to lay him down,” Dean snarks back and Castiel laughs despite himself, reaching out blindly and finding Dean’s hand once more. “Listen, this thing is a decade in the making, cut us some slack.” 

Mandy just smiles and fusses with Cas’ IV. She clicks around on the laptop mounted to the wall and then scans Cas’ bracelet, confirming his name and date of birth before attaching the syringe she’s holding to the IV port. “I know,” she says finally. “Your… siblings? Just guessing. The tall, hottie and the redheaded chick? Anyway, they filled us in.” Dean slaps on his best indignant expression but Mandy just shrugs, unapologetic. 

“Nurses don’t eat, we run on gossip,” she says with a wink. “But more importantly, Castiel’s scans came back and nothing looks broken or overly bruised or otherwise damaged. The doctor wants to continue monitoring his heart for a few more hours and if everything looks alright, you can go home and follow up with Cardiology in a couple of days. So, you know, just try to keep it in your pants until then. Although, I can pretty much guarantee the doc is not going to clear you for,” she coughs pointedly, “any _strenuous_ activity for at least forty-eight hours.” 

“Kissing isn’t strenuous,” Castiel points out and Dean looks up hopefully.

“Uh, it is the way you guys were doing it,” Mandy replies as she yanks the curtain closed behind her. 

“What’s a few more days?” Castiel asks weakly and Dean sighs, dropping his head into Cas’ lap with a groan. Disappointing, maybe, but the feel of Cas’ hands stroking his scalp and hair? _That_ is anything but. “I love you,” Castiel says softly. “I can’t believe I can say that now.” The feeling is mutual, and Dean’s hand tightens around Cas’ thigh to show that he understands. Who needs sex, anyway? Cas is _here_ and alive and _in love_ with Dean, and it’s more than he could have ever thought possible just a few short hours ago. It’s more than enough.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandy is my favorite ever, lol. She is the waitress from 12x12, in case you were wondering :-P


	11. Don’t Ever Change: a Happily Ever After

It is not enough. Dean needs sex. 

If he doesn’t get laid soon, he’s pretty sure he’s going to spontaneously combust. The problem isn’t even _him._ Dean’s been _not_ having sex with Cas for ten years now, but what he _hasn’t_ been doing is dealing with a Castiel who’s openly desperate about wanting to jump him at every friggin’ turn. 

As it turns out, Cas’ cardiologist is some kind of sadistic bastard, wanting Cas to abstain from _anything_ that might overstimulate or excite him, not just for forty-eight hours, but _two full weeks._ And with Dean off from work and it only taking _one_ week for Cas’ ribs and chest to fully heal, that means an entire seven days where there are _no_ physical fail-safes to keep them apart and hold Cas’ libido in check. 

Because apparently, Castiel isn’t ace at all, never has been, and what a time for Dean to find that out. The biggest problem with _that_ revelation is that the two of them have fast abandoned all pretense of their previously platonic relationship the minute Castiel was released from the hospital. Their biggest stumbling block was whose room they were going to move into, each sure that theirs was the more desirable space. In the end, Dean wins out solely thanks to his king-sized bed and very expensive mattress, but he can tell Castiel’s not done arguing about it. 

The solution to that seems simple. Eventually, when Castiel’s feeling better, they need to move out and find a place that’s all their own to start over with, together.

When Dean relays that thought to Sam, his brother is so happy he nearly knocks over the kitchen table getting up to give him a hug. Charlie seems pretty smug about that too, but Dean doesn’t even ask what all that is about, he doubts very much that he wants to know. 

But back to the issue at hand; Dean and Cas are all kinds of on top of each other now, and it’s a problem. They’re openly physically affectionate but unable to escalate past the kind of cuddling and kissing that even Dean’s middle-school self has gotten farther than. The only positive here is that Sam is still groveling and feeling guilty, so much so that he’s not jumping on any opportunities to mock the two of them, and that _might_ be the only thing keeping Dean from plunging headfirst over the edge into full-on insanity. 

The thing is, Dean would be perfectly happy to only cuddle and kiss. Hell, just being able to stare at Castiel and drink him in without worrying about snapping his gaze away before being noticed is a goddamn relief in and of itself. When Cas is sleeping curled up in his arms, head pillowed on Dean’s arm or his chest, it’s the most amazing feeling in the world, a friggin’ miracle Dean never in a million years thought he’d have. And Cas’ lips, his mouth—Dean could drown in them, could kiss Cas forever, fingers in his hair and arms wrapped around his waist, without ever needing _anything_ more.

But _Cas_ is something else altogether. He’s _not_ content with just kissing and snuggling, and he makes his displeasure with his doctor’s orders known by pushing Dean to his absolute limits. In fact, he makes a friggin’ _game_ out of his attempts to goad Dean into giving in. At first, he was subtle. Letting his hand brush casually over Dean’s groin, slinging a leg over Dean’s hip when they’re making out in bed and holding each other close, just generally pressing all the right buttons to work Dean up _just_ far enough to drive him crazy but not deliver.

Eventually, Dean had to let on that he knew what Cas was doing, but that conversation backfired in a big way. Instead of just knocking it off, Cas redoubled his efforts and kicked them up a notch or seven. “The doctor never said I can’t touch _you,_ ” he reasons and no matter how many times Dean growls that Cas knows _perfectly well_ what the doctor meant, he still won't give up the ghost. 

And so, Dean gets Cas’ hands down his pants, up his shirt, and squeezing his ass at every available opportunity and then some. He has an innocent-faced Castiel sliding into the shower behind him and hopping into bed stark naked, knowing full-well what he’s doing and having the nerve to _pout_ when Dean continues to hold out. 

He supposes he could jerk off, but that feels like an insult to Cas, not that Cas apparently cares in the least. Dean contemplates it more often than he’d like to admit but always comes to the same conclusion: it’s not worth it. Jerking off to thoughts of Cas while Cas is _right_ in the other room or maybe even _sitting right there_ would be wholly unsatisfying (at best, totally skeevy at worst) after all of this time. Dean can wait, he can wait for Cas. He’s waited this long. 

But Cas isn’t making it easy.

Once, to Sam’s chagrin as he came down to get a drink of water at two AM, Cas even tried baking a pie in a tiny apron and nothing else, knowing the smell would surely lure Dean out of their bedroom. Even Dean has to admit, if Sam hadn’t blown that plan to shit, it might have actually worked. Two days later and Dean is still having visions of Cas laid out on the kitchen table, moaning and writhing as Dean licks cherry pie filling off of his abs. 

...They might have to actually bring that fantasy to life in the very near future.

But for now, Dean stays strong. He’s not about to put Cas’ health, his _life_ in jeopardy just to get his dick wet, he’s not a monster. And he and Cas _just_ started their happily ever after. Dean wants and needs _many_ more years of Cas by his side to make up for all the ones they’ve wasted. So no matter what Castiel tries, Dean resists. He does, however, think about going back to work early, if only to get his mind off of the way Cas looks naked and half-hard and begging Dean to do whatever he wants with him, because _Jesus Christ,_ he’s only human.

But Dean survives, and time goes on.

On Friday, two weeks after Castiel’s original follow-up with Cardiology, the appointment where the torture-loving King of Hell (Dean’s nickname, he’s pretty sure the dude’s real name is Crowley or something equally ridiculous) imposed the two-week sentence that Dean thinks might actually kill him, they finally get the all-clear. Cas has been wearing a heart monitor for the last forty-eight hours and the fear of being given _another_ week of medical chastity seems to have scared him into behaving for once. Dean would breathe a sigh of relief, but he opened his night table drawer this morning to find three different kinds of brand-new lube and the rest of the space stuffed full with various kinds of condoms. 

The first thing Dean does when they leave the doctor’s office cleared for sex and monitor-free, Castiel beaming and practically _skipping_ (which is weird and kind of terrifying), is text Sam. 

_Dean: Get out if you know what’s good for you_

Not even thirty seconds go by before he gets a reply.

_Sam: I packed a bag and I’ll be at Eileen’s. text when it’s safe to come home. Dean, no offense, I love you both but I can’t wait until you move out._

_Dean: Remember that time you got Cas killed?_

_Sam: i’m already apologizing with my absence_

_Dean: :-D_

_Dean: thanks sammy._

***

The first time Dean and Cas have sex is not epic. In fact, it’s barely anything at all, besides fumbling and fast. Castiel’s desperate, is all over Dean on the ride home from the hospital and way too impatient to bother with things like _getting naked_ or even waiting until they’re inside the house.

By the time Dean manages to locate the right key on his ring _and_ jam it into the front door _and_ get it open, Cas already has both of their jeans unzipped and is sucking a bruise into the side of Dean’s neck. Once inside, he kicks the door closed mercilessly and slams Dean up against it, their mouths moving together open and hot as Castiel’s fist wraps around both of them at the same time. It’s dry, _way_ too dry even with the precome Cas spreads around and Dean has to pry Cas’ hand off so that he can spit in it, because dickburn is not a thing that he wants. Then they’re moving together, rough and dirty, Dean curling a leg over Cas’ thigh, an arm slung around his neck to keep them pressed close and upright. 

Eyes rolling back in his head, Dean comes so quickly it would be embarrassing if he hadn’t been suffering over a week of torturous foreplay leading up to this. As it is, all he feels is relief, and maybe a pulse of desire when Castiel’s lust-dark eyes lock on his, flitting closed as he tenses and dirties up Dean’s bare stomach some more. 

Breathing heavily, Castiel drops his face to Dean’s shoulder, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as he shivers and comes down. When he looks up again, Dean can’t help the stupidly sappy thought that wanders through his mind: _he’s never seen anything so beautiful._

“Shower,” Castiel insists, his hand dropping down to grab Dean’s own and tug him towards their shared bathroom. It’s always been _their_ bathroom and nothing inside it has changed, unless you count the fact that Castiel’s been sharing the shower with Dean every chance he gets for the last week or so. And Dean has a _lot_ of making up to do in that department, considering all the looking and _not_ touching he’s done in that same timeframe. 

As such, he makes sure that this time he’s the one to pull off Castiel’s clothes, to drag him in under the spray, to push fingers into his damp hair and press him up against the tile wall without mercy. Suddenly, Dean’s glad they got off the way that they did by the front door because now, they can take their time. 

And it feels that way, _finally,_ despite all the desperation built up in the last week, backed by all the unsatiated _want_ and shoved-down desire building for all those endless years _._ Now, Dean can smooth the wet curls back from Cas’ forehead, kiss him slow and sure and know that they truly have all the time in the world. When Castiel asks what Dean _wants,_ if he wants him on his knees or to get on his knees, if he wants to bottom or top or use fingers or mouths, if they should try to do a little of everything or focus on just _one_ thing, Dean just smiles. 

He finds himself shaking his head and cupping Cas’ jaw with one hand, kissing down the other side of his face with so much love, so much affection it feels as if it must be bursting out of him, all visible cartoon hearts and flowers. 

_God,_ Dean loves him _so_ fucking much.

Instead of answering Cas’ questions about sex, though, Dean pulls back and kisses his nose, which Castiel promptly wrinkles before smiling back at him. “Bobby said we can stay partners at work, you know,” Dean tells him conversationally, ignoring the way his own dick is already stirring back to life between their slick bodies. 

Raising an eyebrow, Castiel looks surprised at this random turn of events, probably considering how on edge Dean’s been all week just waiting for this very moment. But like he always does with Dean’s various whims, he plays along without question. “Oh? That’s surprising. Isn’t there some sort of rule or, I don’t know, County S.O.P. against that?” 

Dean shrugs and wraps fingers around the right side of Castiel’s ribs, just above the script tattoo decorating his abdomen. He’s ticklish there, a fact Dean knows the way he knows so many useless things about Cas, and he files the thought away to come back to later. Now that he can, he’d like to see if his lips elicit any sort of different reaction than his fingertips over that patch of sensitive skin. 

_Later._ “Yup,” Dean affirms. “Said something about how we’ve been in love the whole time we’ve been partners anyway, and how it’s never stopped us from having the highest case-closing rate for any of his detectives.”

“Mmm,” Castiel hums, pleased, dipping his head forward to kiss Dean’s collarbone. “That’s excellent news, but are you sure you won’t end up sick of me?” The noise Dean makes is somewhere between an indignant squawk and a laugh and Castiel chuckles hearing it, his whole face lighting up in a way that makes Dean forget what he was about to complain about. 

“Kiss me,” Castiel demands and Dean does, repeatedly, licking into his mouth and sliding their tongues together. _Delicious._ In response, Cas turns his head this way and that, nipping at Dean’s bottom lip and letting Dean bow his back when he presses forward to chase his mouth. It’s hot and needy and while they’ve kissed plenty of times at this point, Dean _still_ finds it hard to believe Cas wants him like this. 

When they break apart, Dean’s arms still cradling Cas’ waist and Cas’ big hands laced together around the back of Dean’s head, his eyes search Cas’ own, seeking reassurance on that very thought. “I can’t believe you want me this way,” Castiel says softly, because he knows, of course he knows. Instead of answering, Dean steadies him upright and grabs the body wash.

“Let’s get clean,” he suggests, leaning down to brush his lips against the underside of Cas’ jaw. “So I can take you to bed and show off exactly how much I want you.” And alright, maybe Dean doesn’t know _exactly_ what to expect from a sappy statement like that. A romantic, windswept kiss à la _Gone With The Wind_ or similar would be at the top of his list of guesses, but what’s definitely not is Castiel laughing in his face, which is precisely what he does. Pursing his lips and fixing Cas with a glare, Dean leans away when Cas tries to pacify him with a kiss. 

“Stop,” Castiel chides but he’s still chuckling and Dean grunts in protest, covering Cas’ face with his hand to keep him from using kisses as a distraction. The way he shifts sends water sluicing down his arm and pouring over Cas’ head, making him sputter. Mercifully, Dean releases his face but hangs onto the glare, occupying himself by squeezing a bunch of body wash into his hand and soaping himself down. Despite appearances, he still pays special attention to certain areas of his body because this? Him and Cas finally getting down? Is _happening,_ even if Dean has to listen to Cas mock him relentlessly the entire time. It’ll be worth it.

But Castiel reaches out of the shower to wipe his face off with a towel and then gently cups Dean’s cheek, forcing their eyes to meet. He’s still smiling and Dean’s still pouting, but Cas’ eyes are gentle and twinkling, not mocking at all. “I wasn’t laughing _at_ you,” he clarifies. “I was just…”

“Laughing at me,” Dean grunts but doesn’t protest when Castiel’s hands replace his own on his body, scrubbing the soap into his skin before rinsing it away. 

“I just,” Castiel continues thoughtfully as he finishes cleaning Dean and then moves on to himself. “It seems so ridiculous now, looking back.” His eyes flash up to Dean’s as if to make sure he’s listening before he says, “That’s what I was laughing at. We were both so very dense.”

“Oh,” Dean replies, deflating a little with relief. “Right, past tense. Totally.” He shoots some sudsy finger guns with what he’s sure is a _very_ charming wink and Castiel has the nerve to roll his eyes. 

“It’s almost like nothing’s changed at all,” Castiel remarks as he turns off the water and flings a towel over Dean’s head like he’s a coatrack. Pulling it off, Dean whips it at Cas’ ass and then tosses it aside in favor of crowding Cas up against the wall from behind. 

Letting his hand travel down the hard planes of Cas’ stomach and over the top of his thigh before stopping frustratingly close to his groin, Dean presses his lips against the dark, damp curls at the base of Cas’ neck. “One thing’s changed,” he murmurs, letting his breath puff hot against Cas’ skin, smirking when he gets the responding shiver he was after. Sam’s out, so Dean forgoes the towels and tugs Castiel after him stark naked through their living space. 

“Come on,” Dean says as they reach his room, _their room,_ the place they share together now. “I’ve been patient, and this has been a long time coming. You and me? We’ve gone through _all_ the trials and come out the other side nothin’ but stronger. I think the world owes us one happy ending after all that crap.”

Castiel grins and lets himself be led, cupping Dean’s face as he leans in for a kiss, and Dean loves him so much he could vomit. “Perhaps we can send our story to Disney, convince them that we would be the perfect first gay Princes,” Castiel suggests. 

With a nod, Dean agrees but caveats, “We’ll leave this next part out, though. I’m thinkin’ the rest of tonight is gonna be a lot less _Disney_ and a lot more _Dear Penthouse Forum…"_

With a smile and a laugh, Castiel pulls him close, and Dean closes the door. It feels symbolic, like they’re actually stepping into the next chapter of their lives, and Dean’s ready, he’s ready for everything.

“I love you,” Castiel tells him, and it feels like a beginning, instead of an end.

As the sun sets outside their window, Dean and Castiel “ride off” into the changing colors in the most un-Disney way possible, and Dean’s definitely going to torture Charlie and Sam with that awful metaphor later. Serves them right, meddling assholes. Though as Castiel threads their hands together and pins them over Dean’s head, he finds it hard to hang on to the rage he knows he _should_ feel towards them. 

It’s pretty clear that his brother and best friend (despite what _they_ might think) turned out to be the villains of this story, but Dean will deal with them later. Right now, the important thing is that Castiel loves him and he loves Cas, and it’s all out in the open, so there’s only one thing left to do.

_...And they lived happily ever after._

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.  
> I had some major struggles with this story and strongly considered pulling it/not posting it, but Any's absolutely amazing art and the support from my friends Jen, Joy, and Ping helped me like it again. I hope you did too. <3


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